The Boffin and The Bachelor
by starrysummernights
Summary: "We want to get married as soon as possible." John had never thought he would ever hear those words, in that particular order, come out of Sherlock's mouth. My take on the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Pre-slash to eventual slashy Johnlock.
1. Getting Married

**Hello and welcome to my latest writing endeavor! This is my take on the 30 Day OTP Challenge, inspired by that of Ericandy over on Tumblr. My OTP? Johnlock, of course! :D I won't be updating every day but there will end up being 30 chapters, covering each prompt. **

**The gorgeous cover art is used with permission of seki0930 and a link to her artwork can be found on my profile page.**

**Thanks for reading and, as always, please review!  
**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"We want to get married as soon as possible."

John had never thought he would ever hear those words, in that particular order, come out of Sherlock's mouth.

Ever.

He knew he had heard him correctly though, since he was currently tightly pressed to Sherlock's side, the consulting detective's lanky arm thrown about his shoulders, a blissful smile plastered on his face. He could feel the warm line of Sherlock's body against his own, much too close for comfort. Really, the loveseat was too small for two grown men to attempt to occupy at once, but Sherlock had insisted.

He had insisted, because they were currently playing at being a loving couple whose only aim was to plan their wedding- not gather evidence for Lestrade so he could arrest the owners of the bridal shop/wedding planner boutique for money laundering and identity theft.

"Oh, how _lovely_!" Their wedding planner, an older lady named Ms. Maggie Cho, beamed at them, her rouged lips stretching into a wide smile, clapping her bejeweled hands delightedly. "I just love my job! Helping out people who've found true love is my life's work." She propped her chin on her fists and gazed at John and Sherlock as if they were the cutest couple imaginable. "Tell me. How'd you two first meet? I bet it was love at first sight, right? I have a sense about these things."

Sherlock threw John a glance that was full of longing and barely suppressed joy. He looked as if he were the happiest man in the world, radiant, perfectly at ease, confident about his future with his beloved fiancé. John felt something horrible and icy slide down his spine but he managed to smile back. He saw Sherlock's mouth tighten just minutely in annoyance, obviously at John's poor acting skills, before he turned to the wedding planner.

"We met a few years ago, actually, and he tried to hit on me at the time but, well," Sherlock ducked his head, blushing and sheepish. "I turned him down."

"Oh, you _didn't_!" Ms. Cho exclaimed, grinning over at them excitedly, delightfully scandalized with their faux romantic beginning.

"I did. He didn't give up though-"

"Just _look_ at him! Would you have given up?" John cut in heartily, grabbing Sherlock's chin and turning his head to the side. "Just look at those cheekbones!" He smiled at Ms. Cho who dutifully glanced at Sherlock and blushed.

"I see what you mean, Mr. Bixster. I wouldn't have given up on him either. You must have been quite a heartbreaker when you were younger, Mr. Sandler." She and John shared a laugh that Sherlock felt was a bit too close to being at his expense- at least on John's part- for him to join in.

"Luckily he was very tenacious." Sherlock said smoothly, rubbing John's knee and inching higher up on his thigh. Ms. Cho's eyes caught the movement and her blush intensified. "He put up with me and my foolishness for years until I realized how stupid I was being. It wasn't until recently that our friendship morphed into….something more." Here he reached down and squeezed John's hand, bringing it to his lips and gently kissing the back of it. John smiled sappily into Sherlock's eyes and, once their entwined hands were back in Sherlock's lap, squeezed in return so hard he felt Sherlock recoil slightly.

"I just love hearing couples talk about how they met. It brings such happiness to an old woman's heart."

Sherlock smiled at Ms. Cho, whose eyes had gone misty, and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.

"Can I just say, for the record, that a lot of couples come and go in this business, and I've seen them all. Old couples, young couples, renewing their vows, second marriages, third marriages. I've even had a few couples that are on their sixth or eighth marriages." Ms. Cho shook her head, chuckling slightly. "I've seen them come and go and once you've been in this business as long as I have, you know which marriages will be runners and which won't last past the vows. And your marriage, dear, I think will last." She said wisely, nodding.

"You think so?" John asked as Sherlock began playing with their entwined fingers, eliciting shivers up John's arm. He shifted on the loveseat, the arm digging into his hip but unable to move the other way unless he wanted to sit on Sherlock's lap. Knowing Sherlock, he'd be happy because such a move would make their "loving couple" story look more believable.

"Oh, yes. It's there, when you look into each other's eyes. The way you mimic each other, subconsciously. It's love, dears, true love. We only get that once in a lifetime...and you two have found it in each other."

There was silence in the little sunshine filled office, Ms. Cho allowing her words to sink in dramatically, until Sherlock suddenly sniffed and John turned to see him crying, tears running silently down his face. Sherlock ducked his head and hurriedly wiped the tears away with the hand not holding John's, but Ms. Cho smiled understandingly and offered him a box of tissues, which he gratefully accepted with a whispered thanks.

"That was just so touching," he murmured, sniffing again and handing the box back. Ms. Cho nodded, smiling happily at the lovely couple in front of her.

"Well! Let's start planning your wedding, eh? Now, did you have a date in mind, dears? We like to plan ahead as much as possible and, of course, schedule the venue you want…"

"We just want a simple wedding, nothing fancy." John said hurriedly and the woman's smile slipped for a split second, sensing she wouldn't be making as much money with this couple as she had originally thought.

"Well, all grooms say that but just you wait until the bride starts seeing things he wants." She winked over at Sherlock who grinned and bit his lip, giving John a look from under his ridiculously long, now wet, lashes that asked "Please, can't we have a big wedding as I asked, love?"

"Well, I suppose the two of you will just have to convince me." John said, good-naturedly, feeling a slight high as the woman played right into their hands, just as Sherlock had said she would.

He watched as Sherlock and Ms. Cho shared a look that said they would take great pleasure in convincing him.

* * *

For the next hour, Ms. Cho took it upon herself, in the hopes they would go with the option of a big wedding, to walk them around the maze of show rooms filled with flowers, dresses, arrangements, cakes, tuxedos, and other knick knacks that were apparently necessary in order to get married. John managed to adequately distract Ms. Cho when Sherlock would dart off, exclaiming over some odd or end he had seen that he simply _had_ to have at their wedding. John would fondly roll his eyes and direct Ms. Cho to another piece that would do just as well, while she tried to convince him to go with the most expensive.

"You'll only get married once, Mr. Bixster." She would remind him in a sing-song voice, the phrase grating on John's nerves the more she said it, which was every few minutes.

By the time their appointment was up, John thought Ms. Cho's eyes would bug out of her head at the grand total of their wedding plans. She asked if they wished to pay at that moment and "get the ball rolling" but Sherlock demurred, saying they needed to work out exactly what was needed and that Mr. Bixster was not entirely convinced with his vision of his dream wedding. He assured Ms. Cho they would definitely be in touch soon, calming the lady's fears and charming her with his smile.

Ms. Cho warmly shook their hands and beamed as they walked out the door, Sherlock's hand a warm pressure at the small of John's back. They entwined their fingers as they walked away, Sherlock glancing down at John who avoided his flatmate's sickly sweet gaze and turned to smile and wave at Ms. Cho, who still watched them from the storefront window.

Once they were out of eyesight, Sherlock and John broke apart. John straightened his coat self-consciously, while Sherlock whipped his phone out and began rapidly texting Lestrade, the sweet smile and lovesick eyes he'd worn all day wiped away as if by magic.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked tightly, as they hailed a cab back to Baker Street. "She would have bought it without-"

"Yes. I got all the information I needed. _If_ Lestrade can follow the directions I sent him and is not as inept as usual at gathering evidence, their money laundering scam will be broken up by morning and all thanks to you…my dearest love." Sherlock grabbed John's hand again and smiled sappily over at his blogger.

"Your brilliance astounds me, darling." John whispered back rapturously, gazing longingly into Sherlock's eyes.

They stared at each other for another few seconds before bursting into laughter. They giggled and clutched each other for support as they laughed over their very clever antics. Sherlock's rich baritone chuckle joined John's higher pitched laugh and made the cabbie glance at them in the mirror and mutter about people falling in love and how strange it makes them.

"You almost ruined it when you froze up and got angry." Sherlock breathlessly reprimanded as the cab pulled up to the curb. "You have to act better than that unless you want us to give us away."

"Oh, right. Forgive me for not being able to keep a straight face while my flatmate attempts to feel me up in front of a criminal- at a bridal shop!" John fired back, grinning as he paid the cabbie and turned to see what had made Sherlock go so quite.

"Would you care to explain why I saw you and Doctor Watson entering a bridal shop, little brother? Should I tell Mummy there will be a happy announcement soon?"


	2. Eating Ice Cream

"It was for a case." Sherlock said for what felt like the fifth time, sitting ramrod straight in his armchair, fiddling absently with his violin. He had not yet begun making the beautiful instrument shriek his displeasure but John, noticing the signs, knew it was imminent.

"There's no reason to be embarrassed, brother dear." Mycroft replied, smiling smugly and settled comfortably in John's chair. "Love is a many splendored thing, after all. I am sure Mummy will be overjoyed to know you have finally found the love of your life. She did so worry."

Sherlock glared at his brother then proceeded to ignore him. John sighed heavily, knowing they would not be rid of Mycroft for a while, and began making tea. If he had to endure the Holmes brothers and their bickering at least he could do it with a nice cuppa.

He needed one after the morning he'd had. Pretending to be Sherlock's fiancé had been one of the more bizarre things he'd had to do for a case in a long time and he hoped they wouldn't have to repeat the experience. It was unnerving watching the way Sherlock could turn his emotions on and off, playing a besotted lover so well and convincingly that sometimes John had to remind himself they were on a case, this wasn't real, the emotions in Sherlock's eyes that were directed at him were nonexistent. It made John feel a bit pathetic that he'd had to remind himself more than once that morning that Sherlock was faking- but really, Sherlock was a gifted actor. And, of course, it didn't help matters that John _wanted_ it to be real.

Sherlock had made it plain that he detested any of the "weaker" emotions such as love and had made it clear he wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with John. John respected that and hadn't brought the subject up again since that initial first time. He'd gone on multiple dates since being turned down and met some truly lovely women, enjoyed himself immensely…but he couldn't help the way he felt for his flatmate. Those tricky emotions seemed to increase the more he knew about Sherlock and observed his genius. Yes, he had at first been attracted to Sherlock's handsome looks (and he hadn't been lying at the bridal shop when he praised Sherlock's cheekbones), but he had fallen in love with the man's intellect, humor, and the caring heart he tried to desperately to hide.

John made an effort to keep his feelings strictly platonic, though. He valued Sherlock's friendship and didn't want to lose it because he was pining over the man.

This morning hadn't helped matters, though.

"Marriage is a wonderful institution." Mycroft continued, face serious and grave. "Although the nation's divorce rate is rather depressing, I'm certain you and John will have nothing to fear on that head. If John hasn't left you yet, Sherlock, I doubt he'll do it once you're wed."

"It was for a _case, _Mycroft." Sherlock breathed, his eyes closed and bow raised, ready to play the most atrocious notes imaginable.

"Mummy will be expecting grandchildren, of course." Mycroft grimaced and glanced over at John who had just settled onto the sofa with his tea. Mycroft looked him over assessingly before turning back to Sherlock. "Unless the good doctor is harboring a very big secret concerning his gender and ability to reproduce, Mummy will be disappointed. I suppose there is always adoption, though."

John choked on his tea and took to a coughing fit, gasping for air and trying to glare at Mycroft without success as his eyes watered in pain.

Sherlock suddenly rose and strode across the room into the kitchen.

"I shudder to imagine how such children would be raised." Mycroft continued, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his cuff. "I would only hope that you would have a calming influence in the house, Doctor Watson."

John was only able to impotently cough in response.

"Of course, the wedding must be at our family's ancestral home. I know-"Mycroft broke off his smug monologue as Sherlock re-entered the room and sank back into his chair, balancing a plate on his knees. Heaped onto that plate was an extravagant confection of cake and ice cream. The cake- leftover from Mrs. Hudson's birthday- was pure chocolate, iced in whipped chocolate frosting and sprinkled with sugar granules. On top of that gooey confection was a small mound of chocolate ice cream, onto which Sherlock had drizzled chocolate sauce over. John's teeth hurt just looking at it and he could almost _feel_ himself getting diabetes as Sherlock brandished his fork with a flourish and, with careful, surgical precision, sliced a piece from the whole.

Keeping his eyes trained on his brother, Sherlock took a bite, closing his eyes in bliss and moaning slightly as he dragged the fork out between his lips.

John and Mycroft both watched the movement of the fork, both for _entirely_ different reasons.

"Delicious." Sherlock declared blissfully, eating another piece, licking chocolate sauce from the handle of the fork and rolling his tongue around in his mouth, savoring the flavor. "Would you like a slice?" he offered his brother, eyes widely innocent.

"No, thank you." Mycroft said, primly, lips pressed together, very much aware of what his little brother was doing and determined not to allow it to get to him.

"Just as well," Sherlock replied, forking another piece into his mouth and once again closing his eyes, sighing contentedly. "I'm not sure there is any chocolate sauce remaining. I believe all that is left is the cake, though we could put whipped cream over the top of it." He cockily smirked at his brother, knowing full well that whipped cream on desserts was Mycroft's weakness.

Mycroft, staring at the cake and ice cream longingly, swallowed and cleared his throat.

"I assume-"

"John, you must try a piece." Sherlock offered his loaded fork to John who, shooting a look at a suffering Mycroft, accepted it with relish.

"Wow. S'mazing." He said around his mouthful. "So much _chocolate_- and the ice cream really adds to the flavor-"

"I must be going." Mycroft said abruptly, standing and striding to the door.

"Already?" Sherlock asked, eating another bite and licking his lips. "You've only just got here."

His brother made no reply to this.

As soon as the door slammed downstairs, Sherlock's look of extravagant bliss turned into disgust and he spat the piece of cake out of his mouth, wiping his lips in disgust and pushing the plate onto the table.

"Disgusting." He hissed, striding back into the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water.

"You did all that just to annoy your brother?"

Sherlock took a large mouthful of water and rinsed his mouth out, grimacing in displeasure. "Yes."

"Fantastic."


	3. Arguing

John was having one of those odd moments in which one thinks others are staring at them.

It had started from the moment he got on the bus, heading to work rather earlier than normal. He'd been forced (by Sherlock) to call in to work the past couple of days due to their caseload and thought it might go down rather better if he went in early and started seeing patients. He was sure Sarah would still give him "the talk" about employee sick days and how many he had left, which would be none, but it may stave off his being fired by another month or so. John sighed deeply, wondering if there was anything he could do to keep this job a little longer…when he noticed the first person staring at him.

The man was goggling at him with wide eyes, leaning around the person sitting beside him on the bus in order to properly stare. As soon as John made eye contact with him, the man jerked back and pretended he hadn't been looking, even going so far as to look the other way and pretend indifference. John frowned, shuffling his feet and glanced around- only to notice a few other people looking at him as well. They hurriedly looked away before he made eye contact with them, pretending to be absorbed in looking out the window, in their newspapers and books, but John saw a few heads turn out of the periphery of his eye when he looked the other way.

It was very bizarre.

He had already (discreetly) checked his zip to make sure it was done up, and glanced down at himself to make sure nothing else was amiss with his clothing. It'd be just like Sherlock to have "accidentally" spilled something grotesque and capable of staining on his clothing then "forget" to mention it. It wouldn't be the first time John's clothing had suffered in the name of science. There had been a particularly interesting morning John had come downstairs to find multiple pairs of his pants set alight on the kitchen table and surrounding countertops and Sherlock, clad only in his dressing gown and trousers, proudly declaring he had solved the case.

In this instance, though, nothing seemed to be wrong with his appearance, and yet, it seemed that multiple people on the bus were staring at him with some interest, some glancing away but still others continuing to stare or offering him a small smile. Two young women near the front of the bus were having a heated, whispered conversation and shooting glances back at John every so often. A little old lady nudged her friend and jerked her head in John's direction and her friend turned in her seat to openly look at John. She then turned back to her friend and nodded emphatically. They chuckled together, glancing back once more at John, eyes twinkling merrily.

John frowned and decided to get off at the next stop. This was just too odd and he felt very uncomfortable.

One of the young women from the front of the bus resolutely stood up but was pulled back down by her laughing and scandalized friend. They continued their heated debate, openly staring at John before the bolder of the two stood again and, shaking off her friend, began making her way towards John.

"Hi." She said, breathlessly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. John smiled easily at her, thinking she was rather cute, though a bit young for him.

"Hi."

"Will you sign my paper?" She asked in a high-pitched voice, thrusting her newspaper forward, complete with pen. It was shaking slightly and she licked her lips nervously.

"I'm sorry- What?" John asked, totally thrown, wondering what the hell was going on.

"You're John- John Watson, right?" When John nodded the girl beamed and threw her friend a saucy look over her shoulder. "I read your blog _all_ the time!" she explained, clutching the newspaper to her chest and grinning at John in giddy excitement. "That Sherlock bloke's just…just incredible. My friend and I think- well, she thinks he's really good looking and all."

She giggled and threw another look at her friend, who was blushing, obviously embarrassed. "When I saw you my friend and I just _had_ to have your autograph." Her voice was trembling and breathy and John felt slightly bad for her. He noticed everyone around them had stopped pretending they weren't staring at him and were watching their exchange with blatant interest.

He wondered if he were on one of those hidden camera shows where they played pranks on unsuspecting people.

"I…I don't think-"

"Please?" the girl asked, thrusting her newspaper forward again. "I won't sell it or anything. I really just want it. We're huge fans! Congratulations, by the way." She giggled, almost bouncing in excitement. "We knew it. Carissa called it _months_ ago! It's just so amazing!"

"Congrat-? Ok. Fine. Yeah, sure." John conceded, shaking his head, secretly amused, unable to wait to tell Sherlock he'd been asked for his autograph all because of his blog. It'd been a coup de grace when he'd been able to say the Queen read his blog, but this was just icing on the "I Told You So" cake. He reached for the newspaper…then saw what was on the front page.

* * *

John slammed the newspaper down on the kitchen table.

"Have you seen this?"

"Busy." Sherlock murmured, face pressed to his microscope, ignoring the irate John Watson who had stomped up the stairs just moments earlier. "I thought you went to work."

"I was on the way only I noticed- that's when- when _this_ happened!" John was positively _shaking_ in anger and Sherlock pulled away from his microscope to glance at his irate flatmate, then down at the newspaper John had brought with him, before turning back to his slide. It was another second before he froze and turned, snatching up the newspaper, eyes widening at what was printed there.

**_Boffin Sherlock Holmes Engaged to Longtime Companion John Watson_ **the headline read and beneath that was a full-color photo of Sherlock and John, having just left the bridal shop. Sherlock was gazing down at John with naked adoration on his face, his eyes blissful and happy, lips curved upward in a soft smile. They were holding hands, Sherlock's longer fingers overlapping John's hand and bowed upward to his wrist. John was looking away from Sherlock but was smiling as well, seemingly at ease, his eyes shining in unsuppressed glee. Underneath the photo was a full-length article detailing the couple's extravagant wedding plans they had been finalizing at the shop, as well as a long, drawn-out history of the happy couple and the high-profile cases they had solved.

Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly from side to side as he read the article, his lips slightly parted in shock. John seethed quietly beside him, clenching and unclenching his fists. Unable to remain standing still, he took to pacing, throwing angry looks at his motionless and silent friend.

"Oh, for gods sakes." Sherlock declared, lowering the newspaper and flicking his eyes over John. "No reason to be upset. Everyone will forget it eventually. They got it wrong anyway- we wanted _red_ roses not-"

"That doesn't _matter_, Sherlock- you're focused on the bloody _flowers?_- it wasn't even _real_! Nothing we did that day was real!"

"Of course it wasn't real." Sherlock scoffed, glancing down at the newspaper again. "It was for a case. Nothing, of which, was even mentioned. That shop has closed-"

"It was _your_ bloody idea to act like a couple!" John raged. "Now everyone thinks…thinks-"he gestured angrily at the newspaper still clutched in Sherlock's hand.

"If you're worried about how this will impact your dating life, I would remind you that you didn't have much success, even before people thought you were engaged to me. I doubt you'll see much difference _now_."

This, for some reason, did not help John calm down.

"I don't want people thinking we're engaged!" He hissed. "Do you even realize-"

"Oh, _boys_!" Mrs. Hudson's ecstatic voice called up the stairs and the two men turned to see her hurrying up as fast as she could.

"Mrs. Turner just called and told me!" She cried, pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug and laughing happily before kissing both his cheeks. "You're both too sly for me! I had no idea!" She released Sherlock, rubbing at the lipstick prints she had left behind, and patted John's cheek. "I'm just so happy! When did this happen? Have you set a date?"

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson-"Sherlock began quietly, only to be cut off by John.

"_We're not engaged!_ We weren't even a _couple_! _This_ is what I was talking about, Sherlock! Everyone we know will've read that and now-"

He was interrupted by the sudden chiming of Sherlock's mobile. All eyes looked at it, except Sherlock, whose piercing blue eyes were trained on John.

John's phone suddenly began ringing and they could hear, faintly from downstairs, the sound of Mrs. Hudson's phone in the kitchen shrilly ringing as well.

"I need air." John said, pivoting sharply and exiting the room, leaving Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson staring after him.

Mrs. Hudson jumped slightly when the downstairs door slammed and bit her lip, glancing over at Sherlock who still hadn't moved a muscle. He seemed lost in thought and she sighed, picking up the discarded newspaper and running her eyes over the photo.

"What a lovely photograph of the two of you. You look so happy, Sherlock."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and shook himself slightly as he returned from his thoughts. He gave his landlady a serious look and took the newspaper from her hands, looking down at it himself. "It was for a case, nothing more."

"I do hope John doesn't stay upset." Mrs. Hudson fretted. "That man will give himself a heart attack one day if he keeps getting that upset."

Sherlock made no response, still staring down at the photo.


	4. Making Up Afterwards

**Many thanks to all you lovely people following, favoriting, and reviewing. Special thanks for _Banbi-V_ reading through John's blog post and giving me some pointers and _Harri-Sal_ for requesting we see more of Sherlock's feelings.**

* * *

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

**We're Not Engaged**

I was riding the bus to work today when something strange happened. You'd think I'd be used to strange things happening after living with Sherlock for so long and running round on weird cases but it turns out that's part of the problem. Everyone seemed to be staring at me but pretending they weren't and I was starting to get the feeling I was on one of those hidden camera shows where they prank random people on the street. I'd decided it was getting too creepy and was going to get off when a young woman came up to me and asked me to sign her newspaper. Apparently my blog has gotten really popular and her and her friend were fans and had recognized me. I was about to sign her paper when the front page caught my eye. The headline of the newspaper? _Boffin Sherlock Holmes Engaged to Longtime Companion John Watson_ complete with a picture of the two of us. Now I know why people were staring.

Sherlock and I are not engaged. We're not even a couple. I can't believe a newspaper could get information like that so wrong. Where did they check their facts? Tumblr?

Here's what happened: Sherlock and I were on a case and shamming at being a couple to get inside the wedding planner shop so Sherlock could acquire evidence. Lestrade thought the shop was involved in money laundering and a host of other things but the owners were too tricky to get caught the normal way. So it fell to Sherlock to get the evidence. I thought we could do it another way instead of acting like we were engaged but Sherlock was adamant this was the only way to gain entrance and make it believable. The wedding planner (I can't say the name because of the pending court case) gave us a tour round all their show rooms with the weddings stuff. She was over the moon that we were supposedly ordering a big wedding and I managed to distract her so Sherlock could get his evidence without tipping them off about what was going on.

It worked and we left the shop. Sherlock sent the information to Lestrade and the wedding planners were raided later that day. I thought that'd be the end of it because _we didn't order a wedding_. It was all faked for the case and we're not engaged. You can imagine how shocked I was this morning when I found out about the newspaper article.

Congratulations aren't necessary and please stop sending us flowers.

**Harry Watson**

You're not engaged?

**Bill Murray**

Love'em and leave'em Watson strikes again! What a heartbreaker! That has to be the shortest engagement in history! Seriously, though, tough luck, mate. Things like this happen when you're famous. Just look at that one actress they accused of sleeping with a male escort and it actually turned out to be her cousin or something. It must've been a slow news day for this to make the front page.

**Molly Hooper**

Oh, how horrible! I was already planning what to get you for an engagement present.

**Mike Stamford**

Saw this when I got to work today. I called you earlier but you didn't answer. Is something wrong with your mobile?

**Marie Turner**

The two of you make such a cute couple, even if you're not actually a couple. If that make sense.

**Marie Turner**

This is Mrs. Hudson, by the way.

**Sherlock Holmes**

They got our tuxedos wrong, as well. We ordered matching black, not white.

**John Watson**

I think the argument was over who would wear the white tuxedo, aka who would be the bride. And that's not helpful, Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock was scared.

That, in itself, was an amazing fact.

Sherlock was seldom scared. He was confident enough in his own intelligence to rarely be fearful of what he would meet in this life. He was mentally prepared for any number of strange or interesting scenarios and, even if he wasn't prepared, it was the work of a few seconds to plan his move and act accordingly in the face of danger. Simply. Easy.

The situation he found himself in now was anything but.

He had fought loving John, from the moment he looked over at the unassuming little ex-army doctor and realized that man- the one right there, wearing the cream colored jumper and innocent expression- had killed someone for him. His heart had given a frankly frightening lurch and he had felt stunned. He couldn't remember, even now, exactly what he'd said to Lestrade in that moment as he reeled from the dual shock of falling in love so quickly and then, in an engrained defense mechanism, trying to force himself out of it.

He didn't _want_ to love John. The idea of doing so terrified him. He didn't want to give himself so fully to someone and place himself in harm's way.

_But it's _John_. John would love you back if you only let him. He's in love with you already. Just look at him. You're intelligent- read the signs, they're all there for you to observe…when you're not pretending you can't see them. He would love you. John wouldn't hurt you._

The little voice in his head was insidious and Sherlock didn't trust it. John was just a man with average intelligence who made errors just like everyone else. Mistakes happened. Couples fought. Love died. Marriages ended.

Love was messy and tedious and Sherlock wanted no part of it. He had John's friendship, they were happy together, and that was the end of it.

He didn't _have_ to love John. It wasn't a requirement of their relationship. They could be perfectly happy together for the rest of their lives without being in love with each other.

He didn't love John.

Sherlock had believed that…until he saw that photograph in the newspaper and realized he wanted what was depicted there- the happiness, love, trust, contentment, intimacy, affection - to be real in such a strong, visceral way his stomach cramped from the _want_ of it. And John wanted it to- it was there in the picture for everyone with half a brain to see. John was a horrible actor. The love he claimed he "faked" for Sherlock was one of the most tangible depictions Sherlock had ever seen.

It would be so incredibly easy to fall in love with John.

He was already halfway there.

* * *

"Tea?" John asked, breaking what felt like an incredibly uneasy silence in the flat. Ever since he'd gotten back from his unsuccessful walk, Sherlock had been stretched out on the sofa, doing nothing but staring at the ceiling with glazed and distant eyes, his brow slightly furrowed in thought. He'd roused himself a bit to read and comment on John's newest blog post after John finished furiously typing it, his fingers pounding away on his keyboard, breathing heavily.

He had yet to say a word, though. The day had stretched into evening and now the setting sun was casting a melancholy light in at the windows, throwing long shadows into the room.

"Sherlock. Tea?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over him briefly before sailing away to the ceiling again. John resisted the urge to glance upward and see what was so bloody fascinating. He'd spent the first few months living with Sherlock doing that and there was yet to be anything on the ceiling worth seeing.

Sherlock made an indistinct humming noise John decided to take as "Yes, John, tea would be lovely, thank you for asking." He walked into the kitchen and set about making the tea…only for his eyes to fall on the newspaper, still lying out on the table, folded in such a way their photo was the only part visible.

John couldn't help glancing at it as he set out the cups and put the kettle on to boil. He stared at it, riveted, as he waited, leaning against the counter, wondering why it bothered him so much to see that picture. The article itself was ridiculous. There were so many inconsistencies it was laughable and John could have maybe brushed the whole thing off as a joke…if it weren't for that photograph. It was…disturbing.

Finally, as he was pouring the steaming water into their cups, it came to John _why_: the photo looked real. It looked like he and Sherlock were really blissfully in love. John knew his own emotions weren't faked. He looked happy, exuberant, holding Sherlock's hand and basking in the warmth of those eyes that were directed solely at him…except those eyes held fake warmth. Sherlock was looking that way because he was _acting_. It wasn't _real_.

Looking at that photograph made John feel a hollow ache deep in his chest. It was like looking at something you wanted so badly and knew you could never have. It hurt, but John could accept that he and Sherlock would remain friends- and he was happy with that.

But to have other people believe it was real, when it wasn't….It made him feel irredeemably pathetic.

He shouldn't have taken it out on Sherlock, though.

John glanced over at his friend who was still staring at the ceiling and sighed.

"I'm sorry I shouted."

Sherlock made no sign he heard him.

"I _said_ shouldn't have-"

"There was reason to be upset." Sherlock suddenly replied, shifting his position on the sofa and sitting up. "No one likes their name to be slandered in a national publication."

"Yeah, but- wait, it wasn't _slander_, Sherlock. That's going a bit far. The idea of us being engaged isn't all that-"John broke off and cleared his throat uncomfortably. Sherlock's eyes sharpened briefly on his friend before he resolutely closed them and turned away, tightening his lips.

"I was just surprised. I wasn't expecting to see that in the papers-"

"I don't believe anyone was, hence the overwhelmingly surprised reaction."

John and Sherlock's eyes met across the room, serious and grim, before John snorted and laughed and Sherlock reluctantly chuckled along with him.

"What I would've given to see how Lestrade reacted when he found out." John murmured, shaking his head and turning to finish making the tea.

"I'm sure we can access the CCTV recording." Sherlock replied, accepting his tea from John. Their fingers brushed and it was second nature for John to suppress the excited tingle that little scrap of contact inspired. Sherlock kept his eyes firmly fixed on his cup and gave no notice he was aware of what happened.

"Disappointing you posted a retraction on your _blog_." The disgust in Sherlock's voice was evident concerning John's writing endeavors. "I was hoping to receive a few gifts before everyone found out the truth. If we're going to be wrongly outed as "engaged" the least we could do would be to reap the benefits of it."

"What would be a proper engagement present for us?" John quipped, settling back into his chair. "Nothing bloody. I won't have that on our registry. Those presents are for the both of us!"

"But John-"Sherlock wheedled, using his jovial I'm-so-in-love voice. "I _so_ wanted the intestines-"

"No! We're getting something as a couple or this wedding won't take place!"

"I will concede to you the contents of the registry, so long as you concede and wear the white tuxedo as I asked." Sherlock pouted.

"I am _not_ the bride in this relationship. "

"White would not work with my complexion." Sherlock argued, scowling. "I would look terrible in the photographs. The black would be much better-"

"Fine. I wear white but _you're_ the bride."

Sherlock's lips curved upward for just a fraction of a second, pleased at their joking, though he would never admit it. If John would've blinked he would have missed it. As it was, he caught the movement and grinned over at his flatmate.

"It could've been worse."

"How so?"

"At least it wasn't the hat photograph."


	5. In Battle, Side-by-Side

John wondered how many more times he would find himself tightly pressed against Sherlock in a strictly platonic, "It's for a _case_, John!" type way before he went stark raving mad.

Sighing quietly, he decided it would probably be many, many, many, many more times because he was a complete masochist when it came to Sherlock.

The two of them were currently pressed closely together in the small, smelly closet near the docks, Sherlock peering over John's shoulder through a crack in the door in an attempt to see what the smugglers were doing. They had received a tip from one of the homeless network that tonight was the night the drugs shipment, valued at over three million pound sterling, would be moved and so, for the last hour, John and Sherlock had stayed wedged into the miniscule space, elbowing each other and pretending neither was affected by the close proximity of the other.

Sherlock was holding up better than John, but then he had disciplined his mind in such a way that he could ignore his surroundings and focus on the _case_ and the gathering of _data_. _John_ was reduced to running through a list of unappealing, distracting things in an attempt to take his mind away from the fact that….well, it's best not to say what he was attempting to forget. It's safe to say he was struggling more than Sherlock.

The smugglers were moving the crates from the shipping car to an unmarked, white van (Sherlock, on observing it, had snorted quietly and whispered "Dull"). Minutes earlier, Sherlock had texted Lestrade their location, purposefully not sending the text to his brother, the person who had given him this case, just to be annoying. He still hadn't forgiven Mycroft for the marriage jabs earlier in the week and John, knowing how well Sherlock could hold a grudge- especially against his brother- had been surprised Sherlock had even agreed to take the case. At the time, though, he had thought it held some potential for being interesting. He had since been severely disappointed.

In the dark, confined space of what he assumed was a janitor's closet, John could feel every inch of Sherlock's bony frame behind him. There were multiple layers of clothing, not to mention Sherlock's heavy coat, between them but they were still too close for comfort, too close for two blokes to be pressed together and not feel awkward and for at least one to begin questioning his sexual orientation. Although, if John were being fair, that rainbow colored ship had sailed long ago.

"Look at them. Moving with impunity. Not expecting to get caught. They've done this before- nine times exactly, though never this much at once. That one's nervous. It's his first time- petty criminal, hoping to make enough to get out of this life. They never do." Sherlock moved closer to John and stared out at the smugglers, deducing them, memorizing them so he could pass the information on to Lestrade.

John tensed as Sherlock moved even closer, not liking his personal space being invaded so thoroughly. He fought the urge to shove Sherlock back from him and, clenching his jaw, grudgingly resigned himself to his fate. It was for England after all, Queen and Country. He could endure this exquisite torture until Lestrade arrived. John fidgeted, nervous from waiting for so long, and ready to be out in the open, preferably with at least a foot of separation between himself and the consulting detective. Each breath Sherlock took ghosted along John's cheek and down his neck, tickling the hairs there and making them automatically stand on end. The sensation was enough to provoke a shiver and John rotated his neck slightly to dispel the prickling sensation.

"Stop moving," Sherlock hissed, poking John in the back and John swore to himself that as soon as they were out of this he would do something horrible to Sherlock's experiments, possibly in such a way that Sherlock wouldn't find out before it blew up in his face.

"How long will it take Lestrade to get here?" he hissed back, tensing when he noticed one of the smuggler's heads raise and look about before cautiously going back to unloading the crates.

"Not much longer now." Sherlock breathed in John's ear, obviously agreeing they had been speaking too loudly, though this wasn't an improvement as far as John was concerned. "He should arrive before they leave. Unless my brother-"he cut that sentence short and John could feel the brotherly disgust emanating from behind him. Sherlock hadn't taken Greg's relationship with Mycroft very well at all, contributing to frosty looks and awkward silences whenever he saw the two of them together. John thought it would've almost been sweet except this was Sherlock and he never did "sweet." He did "lethal", "biting", and specialized in death glares. Not sweet.

"I don't think he'd choose buggering Mycroft over the case." John breathed back, knowing Sherlock could hear him, his lips curving into a reluctant smile. John was determined to joke Sherlock out of his sulk about his brother's relationship. Thus far, Sherlock's reactions to such puns were more hilariously horrified than promisingly accepting of the situation.

"If you ever use those words in the same sentence when discussing my brother and his _affiliation_ with Lestrade I'll change the locks to the flat while you're out and refuse to let you back in."

"Mrs. Hudson will let me in."

"Mrs. Hudson won't- _ssssh_! _Keep your voice down_!" Sherlock gripped John's arm and pulled him closer until his back was firmly pressed to Sherlock's chest, their bodies sealed tightly together from sternum to mid-thigh.

John was suddenly fervently glad he wasn't the big spoon in this impromptu cuddle. Otherwise, he would've been looking for a new flat in the morning.

It wasn't until he felt Sherlock's breath ghost along his neck that John shivered, losing control, and he heard Sherlock's breath catch behind him, his fingers flexing, digging into John's arm where they still clutched him.

"Sherlock?"

There was no response except the sound of Sherlock's breathing and John had just started to wonder what he should do to lessen the awkwardness of the situation when Sherlock burst into action. He reversed their positions and shoved John's back against the far wall. John wildly thought he was about to be snogged senseless and his heartbeat kicked up exponentially even as his mind was incredulously happy about the prospect-

"Stay here." Sherlock commanded, ducking out of the closet and leaving John clutching the wall for support and wondering how the hell he had misread that situation so incredibly wrong.

* * *

Sherlock ducked behind the nearest shipping container and listened to the smuggler's whispered conversations. He didn't dare pull out his mobile and text Lestrade again- the man should've already arrived by now! If he didn't arrive in the next three and ½ minutes, there would be nothing left to investigate besides an empty shipping container. The lack of evidence had been the reason Mycroft called Sherlock in and he was practically _handing_ Lestrade the key to the case. Only he was too slow and dim-witted to arrive on time.

Imbeciles. Idiots, the lot of them. It was a wonder any of them still had their jobs, Sherlock thought, snorting quietly and shaking his head.

He heard the van doors slam, signaling the men had finished moving the drugs, and slowly…poked his head…around the side of the container, squinting in the dark to see what their next move would be-

Sherlock suddenly found himself jumped from behind, his assailant wrapping a strong arm around his throat and pulling him off balance using his superior body weight. Sherlock fell backwards, crushing the man between himself and the metal container he'd been hiding behind. The thud of their impact on the metal sounded as loud as thunder in the otherwise quiet shipyard, and he heard the smuggler's yelling in alarm, then running, the gritty sounds of their shoes pounding the pavement echoing in the night.

The impact hadn't loosened Sherlock's assailant and he instead tightened his grip on Sherlock, arm clenching around his neck, completely cutting off his air. Sherlock choked and flailed, trying to throw the man off, jabbing his elbow back, and stomping on the man's feet, anything to loosen his grip. The man cursed fluently but tenaciously held on, determined to choke Sherlock out…and no doubt kill him.

Sherlock paused in his attack, ignoring the blaring warning signals his body was sending him that he was about to pass out, and quickly calculated the exact defensive combination he needed to execute in order to-

The distinctive _CRACK _of a gunshot echoed around the shipyard.

Something warm and thick coated the left side of Sherlock's face and for a split second, he wondered if he were about to die, if whoever had shot the gun had shot him….until the man on his back fell away from him, lifeless.

Sherlock whirled to see John a few feet away, his face deadly serious, gun still aimed at the man who now lay on the pavement at Sherlock's feet, half his skull missing, brain matter and blood leaking out.

Distantly, Sherlock could hear the approaching sounds of sirens, Lestrade and the cavalry to the supposed rescue. He needed to text him and let him know where he could catch the others, which route they would be taking as they fled the scene, where the van was parked, where they would've hidden the remaining drugs….

But all he could do was stand there, paralyzed, with the man who'd tried to kill him lying dead at his feet, and stare at John.

Because in that instant, Sherlock fell completely, irrevocably, and terrifyingly in love with John.

* * *

**You look me in the eyes and tell me that if Captain John Hamish Watson killed someone for you, you wouldn't fall in love with him right then and there. You can't do it...because you know you would. ;) Thank you for reading, lovelies. Next chapter: Kissing.**


	6. Kissing

"I mean, what _would_ be a good wedding present for the two of you? Obviously nothing bloody- that'd be hellish to try and gift wrap."

John grinned over at Lestrade. "Cheers, mate. I'll let you know where we register. It won't be the morgue, trust me." He joked, liking the easy banter he could share with the DI over the whole engagement debacle. Other people's reactions to his and Sherlock's "engagement" hadn't been so friendly and playful. There were a few ex-girlfriends in particular who'd seemed to take offense that John was apparently gay and had said some rather nasty things on his blog, which John had taken relish in deleting.

"Maybe jam?" Lestrade suggested, wriggling his eyebrows, and he and John started laughing, though John stopped when Sherlock jumped down from the ambulance, covered in an orange blanket and looking very sullen. The paramedics had managed to get most of the blood and other…matter cleaned out of his hair but he'd need a thorough shower to get the remaining gunk scrubbed away. As it was, he looked like a half-drowned cat, his hair plastered to his skull, with a glare to match and John thought it best not to laugh at him…just yet. Maybe later.

"Wanna run me through it?" Lestrade asked, turning to business, pen poised over his notebook and looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"They told me I was in shock." Sherlock replied acerbically, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and preparing to be difficult. He avoided looking at Lestrade, knowing he'd be able to easily deduce the _signs_ his brother had left about the DI's body. He'd just as soon not be privy to the perversions that took place between them if he could avoid it.

"The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can go home." John murmured, crossing his arms. Sherlock gave him a look and a silent but fierce war raged between them. John raised his eyebrows expectantly and Sherlock, pressing his lips together in irritation, resigned himself to his fate.

"The criminal was aiming for me but he wasn't experienced handling a gun, hardly ever fired one before so his aim was off, terrible. He rushed the shot, hit his own man, then fled the scene." Sherlock said all this in a bored monotone rush, glancing around the shipyard which had come to life in the past half hour with more than twenty officers crawling around gathering evidence. Over half the smugglers had been caught and Sherlock expected that, once all the containers in the yard had been searched, the others would be arrested as well. They wouldn't have risked going far, not when they had so much money to lose by abandoning the van.

"You said he fled the scene? Will you be able to identify him when we catch him?"

"Doubtful. It was dark, I was half-unconscious. I'm in shock. _Are we done_?"

Lestrade sighed. He wasn't as much of an idiot as Sherlock thought. He knew there was something wrong with his story, he just couldn't put his finger on it. "I've still got questions-"

"Perhaps I should take over this investigation, Detective Inspector." Mycroft said smoothly, arriving without anyone but Sherlock being the wiser. A quick glance at his brother made him shudder and he looked away before he saw any more…evidence.

Lestrade turned to look at his boyfriend and smiled, though he still kept his frown in place. "I know you've got jurisdiction in this one, but-"

"Let's not throw nasty words around like that." Mycroft winced. "It's so…_common_."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, obviously rather exasperated, and Sherlock wondered how a grounded, stable man like Lestrade managed to put up with his pompous arse of a brother day in and out.

"All I meant was that it was your case _originally_, but what with-"

"My people are currently gathering the required evidence and rounding up the last suspects." Mycroft smiled thinly, expecting his orders to be obeyed without question and obviously thinking nothing was wrong with showing up and jerking the case away from his lover without so much as a by-yorur-leave. "You may tell your people to finish up and be on their way."

John pursed his lips and looked away, shifting awkwardly as Lestrade prepared to square off against the British Government…and his boyfriend. Mycroft noticed the movement and his eyes turned to John.

"When will the engagement shower be, Doctor Watson? I do _so_ want to give you my present." His tone hinted it would be a very embarrassing present for John, one likely to enrage his brother, and would be gifted to them whether they were engaged or not. Mycroft looked gleefully smug at the prospect.

Sherlock opened his mouth, prepared to respond with a crushing reply, only for John to cut him off.

"There won't be cake served so I doubt you'll want to come."

John smiled happily as Sherlock burst into surprised laughter and Mycroft's jaw tightened, an obvious sign he was imagining how best to dispose of John's body without anyone finding out and without tipping Sherlock off.

"_If_ you two are done being childish." Lestrade said dryly, not amused at the joke at his love's expense, even if he was angry with him. "There _was_ just a murder that took place, _not to mention_ the drugs-"

"We'll just get out of your hair then, leave England's finest to do their jobs." Sherlock replied, the sarcasm thick in his voice, and nodded at his brother and Lestrade, then grabbed John's arm and started walking towards the main road.

* * *

"We need to have another talk about you going off on your own. Again." John said quietly as he and Sherlock wearily climbed the stairs to the flat. "Let's keep it short. Don't do it. There, all points covered."

He sighed as Sherlock silently proceeded him into the flat and turned to hang his coat up. "Are you even listening to me? It's dangerous, especially when-"

"John."

John paused in hanging up his coat and looked over at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised, waiting for Sherlock to say whatever it was. Something in his voice made John wary and he wondered if perhaps he was about to argue with him about going off on his own- as he usually did.

Sherlock stepped closer to him and, his eyes averted, reached down and encircled John's wrist with his fingers, caressing the skin and feeling the pulse that began beating wildly beneath his touch. He drew in deep breath and the two of them remained motionless for long seconds, Sherlock feeling the rapid beat of John's heart that only increased the longer he maintained his touch, and John wondering what the hell was going on but not about to break the heavy silence that had descended on the flat.

Sherlock suddenly looked up at him, those bottomless eyes colliding with John's, and John's world tilted on it's axis.

John had thought he knew what he wanted when it came to Sherlock.

He had thought if Sherlock ever _did_ love him, he wanted Sherlock to look at him the way he had at the bridal shop. Those dopey looks, bright shining eyes, the grins and easy, open smiles. The love and affection that Sherlock had worn on his sleeve for everyone to see that day had charmed John and he'd ached for that to be real, if only for a moment.

He'd been wrong. _This_ was the look he wanted to see on Sherlock's face.

_This_ look was strong, passionate, dark, brooding, so intense and filled with emotion John felt his knees go weak and he swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, his mouth going dry. He could identify that look: it was lust and arousal and love all rolled into one and it was a look on Sherlock's face he wanted to see aimed at him for the rest of his life.

His stomach swooped as Sherlock slowly leaned down, angling his head to the side, his eyes focused solely on John's lips. John held his breath and almost closed his eyes in anticipation, eager for Sherlock to kiss him, knowing he wasn't reading this moment wrong. This was real, this was happening.

With inches separating them, Sherlock froze and his eyes flicked up once more to collide with John's, asking permission. There was insecurity peeking out of his gaze, hesitancy, making sure John was with him, wanting this just as much as he did.

_Yes_.

"Sherlock." John whispered, reaching up and tangling his fingers in the still-damp hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, gently tugging the taller man closer.

Sherlock's eyes closed and they were kissing, their lips sliding together chastely, merely a gentle press and release. John couldn't stop the pleasurable groan from finally feeling those lips on his and Sherlock sighed and shuddered at the sound. John almost jumped when he felt those large hands splay over his hips, holding him in place, and he resisted the urge to move forward, not wanting to go too fast.

It was over too soon and Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, his eyes closed, breathing deeply. John felt as if he were soaring, his heart hammering, a bit confused about what had just happened and what this meant about their relationship, but he was, at the moment, too happy to care. His happiness was abruptly punctured when he realized he could feel Sherlock shaking, a fine tremor wracking his entire body and making his fingers jitter on John's hips, his breath stutter ever so slightly.

"What's wrong?" John whispered, feeling the moment would be broken if he spoke too loudly.

Sherlock audibly swallowed and opened his eyes. John stared back at him, trying to decipher that unsettled look that sat so oddly on Sherlock's usually self-assured face.

"What…Sherlock?"

Sherlock took another deep breath and then spoke, his voice low and rumbling. "You…_terrify_….me."

There were many ways John could've reacted to that whispered confession. He could've rocked back in shock (because he felt surprised) and demanded to know what the hell Sherlock meant by that. He could've laughed (because there was a bit of amusement in thinking that Sherlock was scared of anything, most especially _him_) and joked and brushed the comment off. He could've ignored it (because it was unsettling to know how Sherlock really felt) and brought their lips together again for more kisses.

John did none of those things, though, because he was smarter than that. Because he knew _exactly_ what Sherlock meant.

"You terrify me, too." He murmured, watching as Sherlock's eyes darted between each of his own, deducing the truth in John's words, as well as the compassion and love and affection and, yes, the terror John felt at loving a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Finally, Sherlock's lips curved up in a smile and he cupped John's cheeks in his hands.

"Good." He breathed, before sealing their lips together again.


	7. Cooking or Baking

When John awoke the next morning, it didn't even take him a second before he remembered what had happened last night. It was the reason he felt so giddy and happy, why his stomach was jumpy and tangled in knots, why his heart started beating faster as soon as he opened his eyes. The knowledge crashed over him like a strong wave, sucking him under and turning him upside down, leaving him disoriented and wary as he stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

Sherlock had kissed him last night.

He had kissed Sherlock.

_They had kissed._

John took a deep, shuddering breath and fisted his hands in the sheets. What did this mean? What was the next step? Were they still only friends or…or….boyfriends? Lovers sounded too intimate for what they had done last night, which had been chastely kiss for a few more minutes before John's questing fingers had gotten hopelessly tangled in Sherlock's matted hair. Sherlock had pulled away with a wince and a look of disgust, both of them suddenly remembering there were still _bits_ of another person in Sherlock's hair.

It had been a definite mood killer.

Sherlock had helped John extricate his hand, then dithered on the spot, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting about the flat and looking everywhere except John, a very slight flush high on his cheekbones. John had stared up at him, bemused, wondering what he was about to say, and feeling no slight trepidation over the many things that _could_ come out of Sherlock's mouth in this situation, before-

"Well. Goodnight." Sherlock had nodded succinctly and promptly strode to the bathroom and closed the door. John stood where he'd been left, listening in slight disbelief as the shower turned on and the sounds of Sherlock stepping in drifted down the hallway.

O….kay?

John had shuffled upstairs, feeling as if he were walking through a fog, his mind scrambling to catch up with what had just happened as he readied for bed. It was only when he found he was trying to pull his jeans back on instead of his pajamas that John snapped out of his haze and focused on what he was doing.

There had been plenty of time, once he laid down, to obsess like a hormonally imbalanced teenage girl over what had just happened downstairs. Which was, embarrassingly, what he'd done, even though he was almost forty years old for fucks sake. His mind had taken a decidedly more erotic turn, taking his and Sherlock's kiss, which had been amazing and didn't really need any embellishment, and spinning a "what if" fantasy- what if they hadn't been interrupted, what if they had gone down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom, what if…what if….

Now, the morning sun streaming in his window, John grinned so hard his cheeks hurt- and that made him laugh out loud from sheer, giddy happiness. It seemed so utterly _ridiculous_ that Sherlock had kissed him- _initiated_ the kiss- and confessed that he, simple and plain John Watson, terrified him. Sherlock had beaten Moriarty, been strangled, stabbed, shot at, kidnapped, dealt with mad and dangerous people all the time, and yet _John_ terrified him. Or, to be more frank, his feelings for John terrified him.

John shifted uncomfortably at that. It was something he thought he understood. It was scary, the idea of moving their friendship into the realm of lovers. What if it didn't work out? What if Sherlock eventually got bored of him? Not only that but Sherlock, from what John could conclude, had never been in a relationship, probably never been in love, and if Mycroft's taunts were accurate, he'd never had sex before either. This placed John in the rough position of…of _introducing_ Sherlock to all these things? John felt equal parts fear and alarm…and some probably sick, dizzying arousal at what this implied.

Had last night been Sherlock's first kiss then? John's insides twisted as he wondered if maybe Sherlock had thought it had been crap and that was the reason he'd left. Maybe John's kissing technique had put him off, wasn't as great as Sherlock had anticipated, maybe he'd been-

John threw back the bedcovers and sprang from the bed, rummaging in his closet for clean clothes. He wasn't going to lay there and obsess over what had happened last night. He was going to act like the grown man he was and obsess over what'd happened in the same room as Sherlock.

* * *

John found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, his face pressed to his microscope.

"Morning." John said, a happy smile spreading across his face at the sight, then stopped and got a good look at Sherlock. He was still wearing his clothes from last night, over which he'd thrown his dressing gown, and his hair was very ruffled, as if he hadn't bothered combing it after his shower so it had dried in spiky peaks and valleys. "Did you…even go to bed?"

Sherlock made no answer, which John took as a "no." He sighed, running a hand through his hair and looked about the kitchen. It was the general mess of petri dishes and other glass instruments Sherlock deemed essential for whatever experiment he was currently conducting but there was a small, empty space cleared John decided he could use to fix breakfast.

He turned his eyes back to Sherlock and frowned.

Should he kiss Sherlock? Show some sign of what they'd done last night? Or should be pretend nothing had happened? Should he wait for Sherlock to do something? Would Sherlock even do something or would he be waiting on John to make a move?

This, John concluded, was getting ridiculous.

John worked up a (surprisingly) tremendous amount of nerve and, as he made his way to the hob, pecked Sherlock on the cheek as he passed. Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to John with a thunderous frown.

"Why did you do that?"

John's stomach dropped. "Cause I…wanted to?"

"Why?" Sherlock demanded again, still frowning and staring hard at John, who felt himself flushing and suddenly felt very stupid he'd just _assumed_ Sherlock would want any show of affection. He should've figured Sherlock wouldn't want any of that…

Ok. So I guess we're not together. Last night was just a…one-time thing. Ok, fine. John cleared his throat.

"It was just…I don't know. Forget it." John turned and busied himself with the kettle, going through the motions of making tea and getting out the breakfast things (deciding on biscuits and bacon if only to have something to do with his hands) while the happy balloon inside him shrieked as it deflated. He'd obviously misread-

"John."

John jumped. He hadn't heard Sherlock get up or walk over, but when he turned the tall man was standing right in front of him, his face inscrutable.

"What?"

Sherlock didn't reply but leaned down- John's heart skipped a beat- and pressed his lips gently to John's cheek.

"Good morning, John."

"Morning." John replied softly before Sherlock's lips glided along his cheek to connect with his own, pressing against him briefly before pulling away.

* * *

John looked dazed and Sherlock felt inordinately smug that _he_ was the one who had been instrumental in placing that look there. That had only been his third time kissing John (well, anyone, really) and he wasn't all that surprised he was both a fast learner and obviously very adept at it. He'd known he would be.

Sherlock chastised himself, though, because he should have _known_ John would be an overly affectionate person who kissed, hugged, and touched at every available opportunity when he was in a relationship with someone. Sherlock was trying to decide if it was annoyance or happiness he felt over the prospect of John always showering him with demonstrations of his affection. Sherlock thought it was more annoyance because such things would derail his musings, experiments, and take up his time because he would then have to reciprocate in order to keep John from being upset.

In order to test this hypothesis, he kissed John again.

After a full minute, he _still_ wasn't sure of his results, so he kept kissing John, gasping when he first felt John's tongue flick hesitantly against his own and this seemed to amuse John for some reason. He smiled against Sherlock's lips and carded his fingers more firmly through his curls, tilting Sherlock's head in a very domineering way that Sherlock found himself going along with just to see what would happen next. John sucked his tongue into his mouth, Sherlock's knees buckled, and he broke the kiss with an accusing look.

"Sorry." John panted, caressing Sherlock's cheeks before releasing him completely. Annoyance, Sherlock decided…maybe.

"So we're…together?" John asked, his hands skimming Sherlock's clothed arms and making his skin beneath break out in goose flesh.

"If that's what you want."

John looked up at him seriously from under lowered brows and Sherlock held his breath, nervous. It was possible John wouldn't want to deal with being in a relationship with him. He already reached exasperation on an almost daily basis just being his friend and flatmate. Being in a relationship would include a lot more reasons for John to "reach the end of his rope" and declare that "he needed air." A lot more reasons.

He waited for John's decision with a blank face and a quickly beating heart.

A bright smile slowly spread across John's face and something inside Sherlock's chest loosened. It felt as if his lungs were unfreezing, even though he knew that was biologically impossible unless one introduced a chemical into the air to induce such a thing, and it was suddenly easier to breathe.

"Yeah. Yeah that'd be…great. Yeah. Fantastic." John grinned up at him and Sherlock wished he'd stop so he could kiss him again. He didn't think it would be very romantic if he kissed John's teeth. He supposed some people had that sort of fetish but he didn't and he'd deduced that John's particular fetish was-

"So what are we? Partners? Boyfriends?"

"If you feel the need that we _must_ label it, I suppose 'boyfriend' would be sufficient." Sherlock replied blandly, trying to suppress the odd feelings in his chest that had flared to life at the idea of John going round telling people he was Sherlock's boyfriend. It was such a juvenile, school-yard term to apply to two grown men in their thirties and a part of his mind was properly ashamed of it…while the other part, the one that beamed proudly, beat its counterpart into bloody submission.

Sherlock resolutely turned away and seated himself back at the table and John (who had _fully_ seen the small flare of delight in Sherlock's eyes when he said the word boyfriend), hid his smile, turned back to the stove, and started making breakfast.

He was in the process of mixing milk into flour for biscuits when Sherlock suddenly straightened from fixing his slide and cleared his throat.

"That may not be milk."

"_May _not be?" John glanced at the innocuous looking white liquid and sniffed tentatively. "Smells all right."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that and replied sarcastically. "John Watson's infamous, fail-safe _sniff test_. Why don't people use that more often?"

John clenched his jaw and stared at his conglomeration of dough that had looked so appealing only moments ago. "What's wrong with the milk, then?"

"There's chalk in it."

"_Why would you_- ok. Fine. Maybe Mrs. Hudson'll have some I can borrow. I can go to Tesco later."

John was almost to the top of the stairs before Sherlock called out to him. "You may want to borrow some flour, as well. I was raising maggots in that bin. Well, _attempting_ to…"

Sherlock watched as John slowly walked back into the kitchen as a man dazed, eyes wide and face a bit pale. John paused and looked down into his bowl of dough and blinked stupidly at it.

"I'm not hungry anymore." He finally concluded in a low voice, dumping the lot in the bin (Sherlock decided now was not the time to ask for a sample of the mixture to see what effect the chalk compound had had on the maggot eggs) and pouring himself a cup of tea, forced to take it black.

John had just raised the cup up, his lips pursed, before remembering he hadn't checked the tea bag. He raised his eyes from the innocent brown liquid to find Sherlock watching him, biting his lip.

"Now, don't get mad…"

* * *

**Hmm...turned out there wasn't much cooking, nor was there much baking, going on in this chapter but I stick by my label. *sticks chin out stubbornly***


	8. Wearing Kigurumis

John felt itchy, uncomfortable, his entire body was sweating, and he felt like a complete berk surrounded by people he was sure were all judging him. He'd been wearing a two hour blush since this whole thing began and was wondering how he'd let Sherlock talk him into this. Probably the way he always does, John thought hatefully. It's not really that hard, is it? Tell me to do something, I protest, then go right along with whatever it was he wanted.

John glared up at the reason he was doing this and was met by a bland smile, while Sherlock's eyes danced in amusement at his expense. Sherlock knew how much his boyfriend was hating this and he was enjoying every minute of John's suffering.

* * *

_2 Hours Previously_

"John, put this on and meet me back here in five minutes- we're going out!"

Sherlock thrust a glossy, light blue colored cardboard box at John, dropped a quick kiss to the top of his head (John felt the thrill from the unexpected and brand-new affection all the way down to his toes), then ran down the hallway to his bedroom, his own box tucked under his arm. Sherlock didn't bother to glance back and check if John would follow his instructions, knowing instinctively he would.

John, who'd been staring blankly at the telly for the last few hours since Sherlock had run out of the flat without explanation, unsuccessfully trying to convince himself to go to Tesco, blinked in surprise at the box that had landed in his lap. He glanced down the hall where frantic sounds of movement were coming from Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock- what is this?"

"Case. From the website. Hurry, John, we don't want to be late!"

John, now rather intrigued, cautiously opened the box and frowned when he revealed a tan cloth neatly folded inside. He stood and dragged the material out, his eyes widening when he saw what he was holding.

"Sherlock…."He said slowly, closely inspecting the suit he held. "What's this supposed to be?"

"A kigurumi. A bear, to be precise. Now hurry and put it on! We have to be at the underpass in twenty minutes!" Sherlock called down the hall, and John listened as Sherlock grunted a bit, supposedly in the process of pulling his kigurumi- whatever the hell that was- on.

"It's got a _tail_!" John cried indignantly, turning the suit around and catching sight of a fluffy brown, stubby little tail. The whole thing was rather baggy and looked like a large jumpsuit- albeit one that was brown and came with a hood attached, atop which were drawn two huge, black cartoonish eyes, a smiling mouth with dimples, and a black plastic nose. There were even two rounded brown ears near the back of the hoodie, completing the supposed look of a bear.

John had never seen anything that looked _less_ like a bear.

"Couldn't you have gotten something…better?" John asked, holding up the brown kigrumi...no, _kigurumi_ and eyeing it with disdain. "What kind of case is this for?"

"From the website: Concerned mother of missing teenage boy, gay, who enjoys meeting friends at a local hangout where they dress in kigurumi suits, take drugs, and do all manner of other things. Mother has refused to contact the police for the past month-"

"Month? Her son's been missing for a _month_?"

John heard Sherlock snort. "Apparently she only just noticed."

John shook his head and went back to looking in bemusement at his suit. Sherlock didn't usually take missing persons' cases so there had to be something special about this one for him to be excited about it.

"Why aren't you ready?" Sherlock asked in irritation and John turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice, his jaw dropping when he saw what Sherlock was wearing.

Sherlock wore a black kigurumi suit similar to John's except his was more form fitting, stretched by his tall, lanky frame. He already had his hood drawn up over his head and fixed atop it were two pointy cat ears and cute wide eyes. He looked ridiculous…and quite a bit adorable- and John swore he would take that thought to his _grave_.

Looking at his flatmate- no, _boyfriend_, they were boyfriends now- something stirred in John's memory…something to do with these suits.

"Um…Isn't this a…" John blushed and stared down at the fabric in his hands, not wanting to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Isn't this a…_what_, John?"

John didn't want to have this conversation with his suspected virgin boyfriend of less than 12 hours. He really didn't. They hadn't even touched on this subject yet and it was too soon anyway. He didn't want to freak Sherlock out by making him think he was some sort of perverted freak but…he had to know. He'd been surprised more than once when he and Sherlock had gone out on cases and didn't want this to be number 398.

"You know." He mumbled, gesturing vaguely with the costume and shooting an uneasy look at Sherlock's.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Obviously not or we wouldn't be having this repetitive conversation."

John sighed. There was nothing for it. "Isn't this a…a…uh…a sex…thing?" John blushed a deep crimson because he realized this said something depraved about him that he knew about the topic- but it wasn't like he looked at that sort of porn. He _didn't_. He'd just happened to stumble across it a few years ago and it was something he ran into from time to time. Nothing he sought out. "Not…not that I look at it all the time or anything- not that I watch porn all the time, I mean….Christ, I'm not…into that…I've just…heard about it." John sighed and felt his blush deepen as Sherlock kept staring at him, not saying a word.

"Are you referring to what is called a "furry fetish"?" Sherlock finally asked and John nodded wordlessly, feeling a sense of relief that Sherlock hadn't made him say it... and wondering where Sherlock had found out about it. "_No_, John. Furry costumes are different from kigurumis. Furry costumes cover every part of the body, including the head and face. People who wear _these_ costumes do so for fun and amusement, and while the same can be said for furries, there is a more…prolific following of people who profess to have a sexual fetish concerning furries than kigurumis."

"Right." John mumbled, feeling his ears heat up at Sherlock's analytical and businesslike way of describing the fetish. He whooshed out a breath and kept his eyes carefully away from Sherlock's.

"The group we're going to tonight regularly meet and we need to blend in-"

"We won't stand out as the only over-twenty year olds dressed like this?" John asked and Sherlock glared at him.

"I won't need to tell you how _obviously_ we'd stick out if we show up wearing our regular clothes-"

"This is an _adult onesie_, Sherlock! And I'm not wearing it."

Sherlock paused and stared at John. He then took the "onesie" from John's fingers and held it up to his boyfriend, as if measuring it, his eyes assessing.

"I thought the color would bring out your eyes." He said softly, glancing at John hopefully.

John snorted. "Nice try, Sherlock."

Sherlock's shy face melted away and he bared his teeth in a grimace, throwing the kigurumi into John's arms. "Just put it on. We're going to be late."

Five minutes later, John, who was still trying to understand how he'd let Sherlock talk him into this, was zipped and hooded in the ridiculous looking brown suit Sherlock _claimed_ was a bear. It was, he maintained, the manliest thing he could find at the shop.

John had his doubts.

"I look like a moron. I'm too old for this." John complained as they clattered down the stairs, eyeing Sherlock's swishing black tail with vague interest, wondering if this meant he had a furry fetish and wondering, so long as it involved Sherlock, if he even cared.

* * *

Three hours later, Sherlock had found the teenager, dressed in some sort of My Little Pony kigurumi and making out with his over-forty homosexual lover (also dressed in a kigurumi, although his was much manlier than John's, which he'd pointed out to Sherlock with annoyance). It turned out the boy had been living with his lover for the past month, declared they'd marry as soon as he came of age, and refused to return to his mother. He ran when confronted and John had been forced to sit on him in order to subdue him. In the end, Sherlock had let the boy go, texted the mother the address of his older lover, and stomped away from the underpass where the whole thing had taken place, fuming that the case had turned out to be a 1.

John had asked what else he'd expected but had received a crushing silence and a withering glare in return. The whole experience had been very bizarre and John wanted nothing more than to take a shower, have a cup of tea, burn the kigurumi and put this entire thing behind him.

At this time of night on a Friday, there weren't many cabs available and he and Sherlock were forced to walk a few blocks, John keeping his head ducked, fearful someone he knew would see him and recognize him, despite the hood with ears_. _Actually_, because of_ the hood with ears.

They were only a few blocks from Baker Street and John had started relaxing, thinking he was going to get away with this when-

"_John_?"

_Fuck_.

John, wincing inwardly, turned to see Sarah, her eyebrows drawn in confusion, staring at him as if he had just sprouted a second head.

"What are you _doing_?" Sarah's eyes swept down his body, taking in the suit and ears but thankfully unable to see the tail, before sweeping over Sherlock as well.

"We were on a case." John said quickly.

"Right, of course. Seems like a…a serious one." She said sarcastically, lips twitching, trying to keep from laughing. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as a giggle escaped before she could suppress it.

"_There_ you are. I've got our cab." A tall man came over and wound an arm protectively around Sarah's shoulders, obviously wondering who the freaks in front of her were and if they were giving her any trouble.

"Stanley- Stanley, this is a work colleague of mine. Doctor John Watson. This is Stanley Forney." Sarah made the introductions, her voice vibrating with suppressed laughter and John wondered how long he'd be hearing about this at work.

John, shrugging away his discomfort, reached for his bravado and extended his hand to shake Stanley's firmly.

"Good to meet you."

"And this is Sherlock Holmes-"

"My boyfriend." John finished, beaming at the pair of them, twining his fingers with Sherlock's in an overtly possessive display.

While Sarah's mouth dropped open, all traces of humor wiped away, Sherlock offered his hand to Stanley, a slightly shy smiling playing about his lips that made John grin.

"Well, we really need to go- the cab." Stanley explained, casting a confused glance from Sarah to John, before Sarah snapped out of her shock and, giving John one more incredulous look, left with her date.

John and Sherlock walked on, their fingers still entwined, Sherlock's tail almost dragging the pavement, their hoods up and ears perky, looking for all the world, John thought, like a couple of weirdos. He found he didn't really care and he smiled happily.

* * *

**I did research on what kigurumis were versus furries (because I'm with John, I honestly didn't know and thought they were the same thing). If I've gotten anything wrong I offer a thousand apologies- it's not my intent to insult anyone's lifestyle :) It's my goal to amuse people with my writing.**


	9. Cuddling

"I can't believe I ever thought being in a relationship with you would be a good idea!" John hissed, his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed at Sherlock over the white tablecloth. The remnants of their sumptuous dinner lay between them and John felt lucky Sherlock had waited until _after_ the main course to start the argument. John decided, at this point and after the day he'd had, it was the best he could've hoped for.

He sighed in irritation at the calm, unperturbed look on his boyfriend's face and just wanted to get up and leave. He did not, repeat, _did not_ want to be having a very public argument with Sherlock in one of the poshest restaurants he'd been in years- and on a somewhat romantic date. Well, he thought sarcastically, that had been ruined almost from the start.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked amused, easily deducing John's state of mind and dismissing it as unimportant in relation to everything else. "Well, one would never accuse you of having the brightest intelligence when it comes to romantic matters, John. After all, considering the _string_ of women you've dated-"

"Do _not_ bring that up!" John half-shouted, gaining the attention of the surrounding couples. He winced and looked down at his plate. This was going to be harder than he thought. "You _always_ bring that up when we fight and it's not fair. At least I _try_. You're too narcissistic to even _be_ in a relationship. Everything always has to be about you." He continued in a lowered tone. "You're completely useless when it comes to-"

"Oh, yes, of course! Bring _that_ up!" Sherlock cried, and a few more couples swiveled to look at them, their plates and conversations abandoned for the entertainment John and Sherlock were freely providing. "You weren't complaining last night when I was sucking your-"

"_Keep your voice down_!" John shouted, furious, shooting a furtive glance about the restaurant. His glare made all but the most intrepid of dinner-goers-turned-busybodies turn away, pretending they hadn't been eavesdropping. The rest merely gawked back at him, wondering if he would start yelling at everyone in general and provide more hilarity.

"I'll say whatever I like in whatever tone I wish." Sherlock fired back loudly, not lowering his voice in the slightest, eyes narrowing dangerously. John's stomach dropped because he knew that look and knew that whatever Sherlock would say next would embarrass him. It was one of the foremost hazards of arguing with Sherlock I-Can-Deduce-Bloody-Everything Holmes. He only hoped it wasn't something truly horrible.

He knew it would be though.

"You don't _own_ me just because we've shagged! I've had much, _much_ better than your pathetic fumblings."

Sherlock, satisfied with his remark, watched as John's eyes widened comically, he blushed a bright, tomato red, and his hands curled into fists, obviously thinking Sherlock had crossed a line in their argument.

They now had the attention of the entire restaurant and there was some badly muffled laughter at John's expense. This seemed to jerk him out of his shocked daze.

"God, I can't even believe I started this with you!" He shouted angrily. "You're the worst boyfriend on the planet! _Nothing_ I do is ever good enough! You're rude, arrogant-"

"Don't forget manipulative, darling." Sherlock drawled, no longer needed to shout. Everyone was hanging on his every word, eager to see if he would reveal more details of his and John's sordid sex life.

"I don't have to take this." John snapped, rising from the table and started pulling on his jacket, his movements jerky and angry, lips thinned down, eyes flashing in rage.

If he weren't supposed to be angry at John, Sherlock was surprised to find he would've been… aroused? He thought the reason for this was the way John was tightly coiled in anger, fury suppressed but just there, restrained, beneath the surface. Sherlock knew how John acted when that tight rein on his temper finally snapped and that made his blood heat up. He wondered how it would feel for John to kiss him while furious at him. He bet John's lips would press against his own with bruising force, there would be teeth involved, and tongue, a harsh fight for dominance that Sherlock thought John would win.

Clearing his mind with great effort, Sherlock filed these thoughts away for later exploration.

It was obvious to him that his boyfriend had truly reached the end of his rope in this argument. Sherlock realized that John had moved from "slightly annoyed" to "angry" over his sexual comment but he didn't regret it. It had been necessary to push John.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded in a loud, carrying voice, half-rising from his chair and leaning over the table towards John, elegant hands splayed out on the table. "Are you going back to _her_?"

There was a poorly muffled gasp and a few titters were heard from the surrounding couples as several puzzle pieces of the argument slotted into place.

"I'd rather be with _her_ than _you_!" John declared dramatically, and threw the contents of his wine glass in Sherlock's face- worth it, John decided with justified smugness, after that low-blow of a comment about his sexual prowess. He relished the look of absolute, genuine surprise cross his boyfriend's face before slamming the glass down on the table so hard it cracked. He then stormed out of the restaurant, brushing past the dithering waiter and trying-not-to-laugh hostess, leaving Sherlock as the center of everyone's attention, his face and hair dripping with wine, his expression still rather shocked, the most amusing dinner entertainment imaginable.

* * *

The flat was dark when John got back and, after throwing off his jacket and putting the kettle on to boil, he set about lighting a fire against the chill of the spring night. Then, he threw himself on the sofa and turned the telly on, groaning in relief at finally being able to relax after a long, hectic day. Getting comfortable, he waited for Sherlock to either text him with further instructions or return to the flat. It shouldn't take him long to complete the case, considering his plan and goal, but things could always go wrong.

The bizarre evening had started when Sherlock met John after his shift at the surgery, a delightful surprise, and after a quick kiss that had made John's toes curl in his shoes, suggested they go to dinner. John had been happy, though a bit suspicious of Sherlock's intent, and his suspicions had been confirmed over appetizer. Sherlock explained he was on a particularly thorny but exciting case involving a jilted lover ("Aren't they always jilted, John? What does that say about lovers in general?"), an enraged husband ("Once again, always."), a tearful wife ("I'd be tearful too if I lost a diamond that large, Sherlock."), and, most importantly and the reason Sherlock had been contacted in the first place, a missing diamond ("Wait. It's worth…_how much_?").

Sherlock had hatched a convoluted scheme involving an argument at the restaurant the jilted lover worked (where they were already "conveniently" dining), a break-in where he suspected the diamond was located, the retrieval of the jewel, and an extrication in that order and thus, their faux fight had begun. None of it had been real, none of the words they'd hurled at each other had meant anything, and Sherlock had encouraged John to shout whatever he wanted at him, which John had done with just a bit of glee…but now, distanced from the situation, it made John start thinking….

He and Sherlock had yet to do more than kiss- despite what Sherlock had shouted in the restaurant about sucking and shagging. Sherlock hadn't explicitly _said_, but the way he reacted when John would press forward suggested he wasn't entirely comfortable going further than a few heated kisses. John didn't care. He could wait. His patience with Sherlock wasn't the issue. He'd do anything Sherlock wanted whenever he was ready. He was concerned because…what if he and Sherlock entered the sexual step of their relationship and it turned out John was crap?

John knew he had men and women on three different continents who would testify he wasn't bad at, well, anything…but none of those people had been _Sherlock_. What if he did something with Sherlock, or to Sherlock, and Sherlock hated it- or John did it wrong through nerves and made a mistake and somehow hurt Sherlock? Yes, it seemed a bit laughable and silly…but that didn't stop John from thinking it. Obsessing over it and worrying.

To be honest, when they first began this, John would've thought Sherlock would be jumping him, eager to learn and analyze and _know_ everything there was to know about sex. Thus far, there had been less jumping and more…hesitancy.

Sherlock initiated affection with John by staring. John would be typing on his blog, or cooking, or cleaning, or just relaxing…and suddenly feel eyes boring into him. He'd look up and Sherlock would be staring at him, hard, his entire focus centered on John, expression serious and thoughtful. The first few times this happened had been very disconcerting. John, confused, had smiled and asked "What-?" Only for Sherlock to rise from his chair, cross the room, lean down, and kiss him. John, surprised, had tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair and responded with interest. Sherlock would always melt into the embrace and respond in kind, sometimes surprising John with wonderful little flourishes of his lips and tongue that John wondered where he was learning but was too delighted with to care.

After a full week of these stare-initiated kisses, John was starting to understand that Sherlock was waiting for encouragement or…perhaps permission that he could kiss John. There was something very sweet about that- and there was also something in it that scared John because it seemed to place a lot of responsibility on his shoulders and painted Sherlock as vulnerable. Which brought him back to his worry over initiating anything beyond those heated kisses he and Sherlock had been sharing.

The slamming of the door downstairs signaled the man in question was back, and John rose from the sofa, a happy smile on his face, excited to see his boyfriend.

* * *

"Did you get it?" John asked as Sherlock nonchalantly strolled into the flat and hung his coat up on the door.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a diamond the size of an acorn. He rolled the glittering jewel in his fingers, watching dispassionately as it sparkled in the light, before tossing it casually into the air, deftly catching it, then tossing it on to John.

He smirked in amusement as John lunged forward to catch it and just managed it by the tips of his fingers. "Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched as John studied the jewel, his eyes wide and amazed at holding a small fortune in his hands. Sherlock had seen bigger. John rolled the diamond in his palm, then frowned and scuffed at the surface a little.

"There's still a bit of pudding stuck to this."

"I charge extra for cleaning." Sherlock said, grinning at John and plucking the jewel from his fingers before striding over to his laptop and quickly sending a message informing their client to come by tomorrow to retrieve their missing jewel. He winced in displeasure as he thought of the tearful, fawning attention the cheating wife would exhibit when he gave her the jewel and made a mental note to be out tomorrow and allow Mrs. Hudson to handle it. Glancing at John, and remembering how attractive the wife was, Sherlock made another mental note to make sure John was out of the flat as well.

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on his back as he typed out his message and it made him react physically- increased heart rate, sweaty palms, flushed skin, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Breathing deeply in anticipation, he finished sending the message while his mind leapt ahead to ideas of kissing John.

When he turned, John had moved so he was only feet away from him, an open, relaxed smile on his face, his eyelids drooping slightly in fatigue. Sherlock closed the distance between them and reached for John's hand, clasping it loosely in his own. He skimmed his fingers across John's wrist and felt the heartbeat beneath pick up, his own beginning to thud faster in time.

"Thank you for your assistance." Sherlock said, eyes flicking down to John's lips and John grinned and tugged on Sherlock's hand to bend him down and closer. His other hand came up to cup Sherlock's cheek as he gently pressed their lips together. Sherlock sighed at the sensation, feeling as if his bones had been turned to jam, even as the rest of his body reacted in much less…mild ways.

"You could've been on the stage with that acting." John whispered, drawing back slightly, and Sherlock chuckled.

"You did very well, too, John."

"I did like shouting abuse at you. Great stress reliever." John admitted, mock-seriously, and Sherlock burst into laughter, leaning in to kiss him again.

He felt John run his fingers through his curls and stifled a moan at the contact, not wanting to appear too needy or desperate, but John's kisses ignited a slow burning fire in his veins that left him feeling a giddy, spiraling high. John's kisses were the best drug, and were just as addictive, just as mind-altering and Sherlock loved them, wanted to never stop kissing John. It was a scary feeling, that swooping, diving feeling his body experienced when John moved forward, his hand at the small of Sherlock's back pressing them together, making Sherlock gasp at the flare of wild arousal the contact inspired- Then John retreated, his grip loosening, afraid he'd made a mistake.

"Maybe we could take this…somewhere…more comfortable?" John asked between kisses and Sherlock went still against him, arousal and worry clashing nauseatingly through his body at what John was implying. It wasn't that he didn't want John…he did…or well, he thought he did. His experience feeling arousal for another person was new and rather frightening in it's intensity, in the need he felt, and he was still trying to get used to it. It wasn't helped that a small part of him didn't _want_ to feel this way and slightly resented John for inspiring it.

"Sorry- I didn't mean…just…the sofa. That's all." John stammered, pulling away and frowning, angry at himself, not liking the way Sherlock had gone motionless at his suggestion. "It's just…I'm tired and thought…"he gestured wordlessly at the sofa. "We could sit down."

Sherlock's face was expressionless as he turned away and sat on the sofa. John joined him, and the two sat side by side, rather awkwardly, no part of their body touching. They watched telly without speaking for a few minutes and Sherlock tried watching John from the corner of his eye, wondering what he'd do next. He was caught out, however, when John started doing the same to him.

When their eyes met, John started laughing and Sherlock grinned. Then, to his surprise, John was pulling him over, cuddling him against his body, and Sherlock went willingly, resting his head on John's chest as John shifted down on the sofa so he could rest his head on a pillow. There wasn't anything sexual about this touching, Sherlock decided. This was more about comfort and rest and he found himself relaxing into the feeling, draping his arm around John's middle. He felt John sigh deeply and relax, his long day at work finally catching up to him. He'd alluded to a long day earlier and Sherlock had deduced there had been something to do with multiple sick children, an unfortunate timetable for next week, and a not-so-anonymously sent stuffed bear.

As time passed and Sherlock felt John drift to sleep beneath him, he tried not to think of all the different things he could be doing instead of cuddling against John as he slept. John wasn't even aware he was there so it wasn't exactly a requirement that he stay. Sherlock could get up and start an experiment, or check the website, or play violin, or…there were multiple things he could be doing…but none held as much appeal to him as laying against John.

* * *

John woke disoriented and blinked his eyes a few times, groggy, an overwhelming tiredness trying to pull him back to sleep. Turning his head, he saw the fire had gone out and the only light in the flat came from the flickering telly, on which a late-night comedy show was playing. John moaned and stretched…and it was then he became aware of a large, heavy presence lying stretched atop his body. Somehow, during his nap, he'd lain further back against the sofa and Sherlock had sprawled himself across him, surprisingly and without permission but John didn't care.

"Sher…lock?" John asked sleepily, those familiar brown curls tickling his nose and making his eyes water. He blinked some more and ran his hands up Sherlock's clothed back, pulling him into a tight embrace, before relaxing, sighing contentedly at the comforting weight.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock sounded wide awake and he shifted position atop John to stare down at him, his eyes bright and alert in the glow of the telly. John took a few seconds to enjoy the view of Sherlock over him before, unable to stifle it, a large yawn interrupted the moment.

"Mmm, s'time for bed, yeah?" John asked, his speech slightly slurred around the edges as he tried to make his sleepy mouth move correctly. Sherlock stared down at him and then moved away, allowing John to haul himself into a sitting position and rub at his eyes, trying to make them focus. _God, he was tired._

"What time is it?"

"Just past two."

John groaned and rubbed his face which was prickly with stubble, before looking over at Sherlock. "I've got work in the morning. M'going t'bed."

Sherlock didn't reply as John, feeling as if he weighed a ton, dragged himself up from the sofa and shuffled to the doorway. He turned and glanced back at Sherlock.

"Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

John looked at Sherlock who had remained seated on the sofa, and perhaps it was John's sleep-doped brain, but there was something about Sherlock that looked a bit dejected, disappointed. Why would that be?

John decided he didn't have the mental capacity to give it much thought tonight. He shook his head to clear away the worst of the cobwebs.

"Wanna come up?" John asked, leaning against the doorway, eyelids dragging over his eyes with unbearable slowness.

Sherlock's head jerked around, his curls bouncing, and his eyes wide. "What?"

John was too tired to even be smug over the fact that he'd surprised Sherlock. "Wanna come up and sleep with me? Y'know…_sleep_? Just that. If you want." John hummed, and then waited for what seemed like ever for Sherlock to make up his mind. He seriously thought he could fall asleep right there, on his feet, propped against the wood of the doorway, and sleep like a baby.

"Ok." Sherlock said, and John jerked, realizing he'd actually dozed off and hadn't seen Sherlock get up and move.

"M'kay."

Sherlock followed John up the stairs to his room and stood to the side, watching silently as John fumblingly stripped out of his clothes, all except his pants, not really caring if Sherlock saw him semi-nude because he'd seem him that way before for various reasons, then pulled on pajamas.

Sherlock was still standing awkwardly beside the bed when John flopped gracelessly into it, bouncing slightly before wriggling under the covers.

"M'so tired. You coming?" John asked, burying his face in the coolness of his pillow and moaning in delight. "Let me sleep, ok? There's work tomorrow."

"Yes,John." Sherlock responded as he gingerly sat on the bed and then laid back, stretching himself out beside John rigidly.

John had almost drifted off to a blissful, well-earned sleep before he felt Sherlock roll closer to him and curl himself against his back, curly head tucked between John's shoulder blades, knees flush against John's own, a warm, comforting presence at his back. John grinned and reached back to run his fingers fondly through Sherlock's hair, ruffling it and earning himself an angry, cat-like noise from his boyfriend.

"Night, Sherlock." John slurred, sleep already dragging him under.

"Goodnight, John."

As John began snoring, Sherlock relaxed, breathing in the familiar scent of John and slowly….slowly…so as not to wake him, draped his arm around John's middle, pulling him closer. He didn't expect to fall asleep, expected to stay awake for hours analyzing everything about this new development…but eventually drifted off as he counted John's average breaths per minute.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone for such amazing support of this story! In case I haven't said it yet, and in case this chapter gave you the wrong idea, this story will be very low-angst. Mainly, there will be fluffy, humorous love. :)**


	10. During Their Morning Rituals

John woke to the smell of wine and a warm, almost too-hot presence all along his back. He shifted, inhaling deeply the faint, drugging whiff of alcohol and wondered where it was coming from, before the events of last night came slowly trundling through his sluggish mind.

_Oh, right,_ John turned over and grinned at the sight that met him. Sherlock slept on, knees drawn up and body curled, nestled in the blankets, hair slightly matted and emitting a strong smell of wine that John, grinning smugly, remembered throwing at him the previous evening. He hummed happily as he snuggled closer to Sherlock's still form in the warm nest of blankets, and Sherlock shifted to accommodate him, flopping onto his back and frowning in his sleep at being disturbed. John felt drowsy, relaxed, and sleep was a warm, sweet-voiced mistress that coaxed him to lazily submit and loll about indolently. John exhaled and wished he had thought to close the curtains last night. The blazing sun was making it hard to fall back asleep.

John, frowning drowsily, ran through what he'd just thought, realized something was wrong with that picture…and his eyes snapped open in comprehension. He stared in horror at the bright, carelessly dancing sunshine that was filtering through his window, his stomach dropping all the way to his toes in dread.

"_Shit_!" John flung back the covers and jumped from the bed, not caring that he jostled awake his previously sleeping boyfriend, and ran to his dresser, pulling open the drawers noisily and tossing out a pair of pants and socks. He raced to the closet and grabbed the first shirt and trousers his hands landed on, not caring if they matched or not.

"What's wrong?"

John paused at the sound of the deep, sleep-roughened voice and looked over at Sherlock who was now sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, still dressed in his clothes from last night which were now horribly creased and disheveled. His hair was standing wildly on end, his eyes squinted and blinking sleepily, and John couldn't remember ever seeing him look so unkempt. He looked sleep-rumbled and adorable and John wanted to climb back into bed and kiss him back to sleep. He glanced at the clock and swore again.

"I overslept." John said. "I'm going to be late-"

"I think you're already late, according to the time." Sherlock said, unconcerned, and John shot him an annoyed look before grabbing up his clothes and running from the room, pounding down the stairs to jump in the shower.

Sherlock smirked and flopped back on John's bed, folding his arms beneath his head and chuckling up at the ceiling. He knew it would take John a while to figure out exactly what had happened to the alarm on his clock, but he'd eventually discover it and know the reason, and who was responsible, behind it.

No one threw wine in Sherlock Holmes's face and got away with it. Even if it had been for a case.

* * *

John took the quickest, and coldest, shower of his life- scrubbing his body and hair and rinsing in under two minutes flat. He fumbled with the knobs to turn the water off, feeling a rush of nostalgia involving medical school, student loans, homework, late nights studying, and over-sleeping the next morning then rushing about a too-small flat at 7:45 to get ready for an 8 am lecture. He brushed his teeth with one hand while dressing himself with the other in the steamy bathroom, swiftly combing his hair flat with quick swipes. He hurried from the bathroom, hair still wet but no longer rudely sticking up, and nearly collided with Sherlock who was indolently making his way to the kitchen at a very _obscene_ pace considering how much of a rush John was in.

"Sorry." John murmured, brushing past him and quickly making toast while he searched for his shoes which had seemed to have magically disappeared since last night.

"Just tea for me, thanks."

"There's no time for me to make tea, Sherlock. You'll have to make it yourself." John said distractedly, locating his briefcase in the hallway but no shoes and so missed the slightly scandalized look Sherlock gave him before he stormed over to the sofa.

"Sherlock, where are my shoes?" John called minutes later, shrugging on his jacket and pattering about in his sock feet, a piece of slightly burnt toast in one hand.

"Why would _I_ know where your shoes are, John?"

"You usually do something with them." John replied, looking around the room, hoping his eyes would land on the missing shoes and he could leave for work. _Fuck_, he was so late. He may as well just go ahead and be fired now. The nervous, fluttery feeling in his chest told him he probably already was.

"Where are they?"

Sherlock, lying apathetically on the sofa, rolled his eyes and made no response. He watched as John stumbled about the flat looking for his boring, cheap shoes. John finally located them in the sitting room under a large pile of old case notes, which happened to be Sherlock's, and thus the blame for hiding the shoes was laid at his feet (no pun intended). Sherlock argued the evidence against him was purely circumstantial and wouldn't hold up in court. He further argued that John's subsequent suggestion of what he could go do to himself for hiding the shoes wasn't humanly possible and was uncalled for considering that the evidence against him was shoddy at best.

Sherlock then became the recipient of a truly furious glare.

John wasn't furious enough, though, to be stopped from dropping a quick kiss to Sherlock's forehead before he left, then allowed his infuriating boyfriend to kiss him lingeringly on the lips (under the assumption Sherlock was apologizing for hiding the shoes) and then steal his half-eaten piece of toast.

* * *

It was well past noon before Sherlock bestirred himself from the sofa and unhurriedly traipsed into the bathroom, stripping out of his day old clothing and turning on the shower. He waited until the water was the exact perfect temperature before stepping in, closing the curtain, and allowing the water to cascade in a pleasant stream down his body.

He took his time lathering up with suds- purposefully using John's soap because it smelled like him- and leisurely washed his hair, scrubbing it until his scalp tingled, intent on getting every last trace of wine from his curls. He _detested_ it when his hair was filthy. He didn't mind when his body or clothes were disgusting- he could jump into skips, rivers, puddles, and bloody crime scenes all day and not care how grimy he got- but when his hair became matted, gross, smelly…he shuddered. He hated it. At least he had repaid John for that indignity.

It was as he stood under the shower and allowed the water to slowly sluice the suds from his skin (there were no cases on nor experiments at the moment so Sherlock could take his time with _all_ things today), that Sherlock glanced down and caught sight of his penis, flaccid at the moment, cushioned in his thatch of pubic hair. He reached down and flicked it gently, watching with disinterest as it bobbed and responded to that simple touch, pulsed, growing just a bit hard. He knew John regularly indulged in self-pleasure in the shower but Sherlock rarely felt so inclined. When he did it mainly happened because he was bored, when he was between cases and there wasn't anything else stimulating going on. It usually took a long time and was a bit dull as Sherlock cast about for thoughts that were arousing, which sometimes took longer than he would like. The orgasms were, he assumed, fairly standard and normal and there wasn't anything physically wrong with him. He was capable of having them, there wasn't anything wrong in that regard. It was just…rather boring.

He clinically stroked himself and watched as he slowly got hard under the ministrations, his foreskin retracting to reveal the flushed tip of his penis. He traced the sensitive skin with his finger and bit his lip at the tingling feeling that spread through his pelvis. Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock studied himself critically. He had a perfectly standard length, thickness, and he experienced firm, normal, regular erections. He had a penis. What else was there to say? Billions of other men had penises too.

He wondered what John would think about his.

As he continued his slow stroking, Sherlock remembered his thoughts from last night about John's angry kisses, hard bruising pressure, and the rush of adrenaline such attentions would no doubt inspire. He hissed as he felt himself grow harder and, sensing the possibilities, latched onto the idea. He closed his eyes and visualized John, angry, furious, his eyes flashing and muscles all locked, striding towards him and grabbing him- Sherlock flicked his wrist, adding a flourish to his rhythm that included the head of his penis, making his pleasure spiral tighter and higher.

John would grab him, so unlike how he usually treated him which was delicately and gently, and kiss him, a hand to the back of his head would force Sherlock to kiss him back, would press their bodies closer together. John's arousal would be evident, hard against Sherlock's body and Sherlock knew he'd respond. He stroked faster, his hand making soft, slick noises as it moved over his length, aided by the water still rushing down.

John would…John would push him backward, onto the sofa, but he wouldn't be cruel and force him to do anything. Even in his private fantasies, Sherlock couldn't imagine John actually hurting him even if he _were_ furious with him. John would sink to his knees and take Sherlock's penis in his mouth. He knew from his deductions that John took pleasure from pleasing his partner but the wicked light in John's eyes would inform Sherlock that he wanted to tease him, draw out his pleasure excruciatingly until-

Sherlock gasped as his orgasm washed over him, making his knees tremble and he leaned against the warm tiles for support. He groaned as his hand slowed and finally stopped moving over his overly-sensitive penis and he simply held himself and felt the resulting throbbing aftershocks.

With a slightly shaking hand, he turned the taps off…then paused when he heard the front door slam and familiar footsteps making their way up the stairs.

Why was John home so early?

* * *

_A few hours earlier..._

John sat through Sarah's lecture about the stability of his job- which was tenuous at best. John was trying to read between the lines of what she was saying and determine if she was trying to let him down gently that he was actually fired. It was really hard to tell, because one moment she was telling him how amazing he was at the surgery, and the next…

"We just can't keep you if you don't show up to work." Sarah finally finished, running a hand through her hair and staring down at her paperwork. "You're honestly over-qualified for this job anyway and-"

"Sarah. What are you trying to say?" John asked, smiling politely and trying to keep the annoyed look off his face because he was starting to get the idea that he was fired. Sarah stared at him and crossed her arms on her desk before sighing regretfully.

"I think I have to let you go, John. You've missed over two _weeks_ of work in the past month _alone_, that's not factoring in all the other times, and then this morning…" She shrugged and glanced down at her paperwork again. "You've been late more times than just this morning- 10, exactly in the-"

"Past month." John finished for her, sighing heavily. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing whose fault it was that he was currently being fired, and managed another smile. This wasn't Sarah's fault and he wouldn't take it out on her. She'd given him _more_ than enough chances to salvage this job. "Well…I'm glad you gave me a chance anyway. Really, thanks for being so…understanding."

Sarah smiled back at him. "I'll still give you a great reference, John. When you're _here_ you're really…really a great doctor."

"Thanks, Sarah." John said, his mind already wondering where he'd get a new job. He'd been a bit desperate when he took _this_ job because there wasn't exactly a wide berth of available jobs at the moment. After a few more awkward platitudes, he stood and shook hands with Sarah, intent on clearing out his office before the end of the day.

"John."

John stopped in the doorway and turned back to Sarah, who'd stood up and was fiddling with her pen.

"Look…I know it's none of my business but…I don't think…being with Sherlock doesn't exactly help you successfully keep a job."

When John just stared at her, Sarah winced and looked away. "I'm not saying anything and you don't have to take my advice, just…keep that in mind next time. Not everyone would be so understanding about all the time you take off." She handed John his file with raised eyebrows and he took it as he left the office.

* * *

Sherlock peered around the doorway to the kitchen, his hair slightly dripping, and stared at John. John's back was to him and he was standing at the stove cooking. Comfort food, Sherlock realized and he raised his eyebrows. He remembered John explaining, in great detail which hadn't been necessary, why potato soup with cheddar cheese and bacon bits was comfort food. John only ever cooked "comfort food" when something bad had happened and he needed, well, comfort. What had happened?

Sherlock glanced around, trying to deduce the reason before John told him. He noted the slightly slumped set of John's shoulders, the obvious and aforementioned presence of the comfort food, his untucked shirt, no shoes, slightly rumpled hair from running his hands through it. Something had happened that had agitated him, made him worry, something to do with his job. Another lecture about his eventual termination? Then again, he was home very early. Had he been fired?

Sherlock, frowning, had turned to see if the sitting room would yield any further results before John spoke.

"I got fired today." he said, turning to slightly smile at Sherlock. John thought he saw the briefest flash of guilt on Sherlock's face before it was wiped away and he supposed Sherlock could deduce that he'd been fired for missing too much work to go out on cases with him. John turned back to his soup stirring and sighed. It wasn't even all Sherlock's fault, really. He was a grown man. He should have stood up to Sherlock and been firm when he said he couldn't miss work for cases. This whole thing could've been avoided, or at least postponed for a few more months.

"You're better off without that job." Sherlock said dismissively, wondering why John was so upset over losing what had been a boring, low-paying job where he worked with idiotic people and was regularly vomited upon by his patients.

"Mmm…yeah, I guess you _would_ think that. I'm going to have to find another one, though." John said, his voice disheartened as he continued stirring his soup.

Disquiet began gnawing at Sherlock because John was still obviously upset over the loss of his job, but Sherlock knew the comfort food would probably put him to rights soon.. Sherlock decided to leave him to it and strode into the sitting room, powering up his laptop to check the website and see if anything was happening. He had yet to check the major news networks to see if there were any interesting crimes he could pester Lestrade about. Thinking of Lestrade, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and began to send a text.

He heard John sigh deeply in the kitchen and glanced over.

John's shoulders were still slumped and he shifted from foot to foot as he listlessly stirred his soup. He occasionally ran his fingers through his hair, then smoothed it down again, rubbed a hand over his forehead, nervous tics of agitation. John was upset. Sherlock frowned and turned back to his laptop, not liking that John was distressed. What could _he_ do about it, though? It wasn't as if he could go out and find John another job. And he couldn't go back in time and prevent Sarah from firing him. He'd _needed_ John on those cases….although, this morning had been an unfortunately timed revenge. Still, this morning's lateness wasn't the reason John had been fired. It had only been part of the reason.

John sighed again and Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

He stood and quietly made his way into the kitchen and, hesitating briefly, wrapped his arms around John and pulled the smaller man to his chest. John stiffened in surprise for a second, then sighed again and relaxed back against Sherlock.

"I'm sorry…you're upset that you lost your job." Sherlock said, picking his way through what he wanted to say and not wanting to lie and say he was sorry John had been fired. He wasn't. This meant John would be at the flat more often and could help him with cases.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John said, gripping one of Sherlock's arms with his free hand. They stood quietly in the kitchen for a minute before John pulled away only long enough to turn in Sherlock's arms and face him, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock's frame.

"You're a bastard for destroying my clock." John said, his voice muffled in Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock froze, wondering if John were about to get mad, blame him for losing his job, and start yelling. "I'm not going to apologize for throwing the wine, though." John continued. "You deserved it after saying what you did about my _fumblings_."


	11. Holding Hands

**Thanks to everyone for being so nice as to follow, favorite, and review this story. It makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying it :) Please read and review to let me know how I'm doing. Love!**

* * *

Cameras clicked in rapid succession, a horrible cacophony like thousands of insects, as John and Sherlock stood in front of the roomful of reporters at Scotland Yard. Their press conference over Sherlock solving the case of the high-profile kidnapping of a stock traders daughter had gone well: Sherlock had only insulted 3 people and John had managed to hush him up before his deductions became too personal. The questions asked had been professional, they had managed to deflect the more intrusive questions about their relationship, and now all they had to do was the photographs.

Sherlock, a new deerstalker perched firmly on his head, was grimacing at everyone in general, his version of a smile, while John stood beside him, hands clasped behind him, determined to get through this and trying to devise a way to prevent Sherlock from setting the new hat alight as soon as they reached the flat. The last one had blazed out of control and left a large burn mark on the ceiling of the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson had been _most_ displeased. John hadn't been thrilled either, as he'd almost pulled something in his race to the fire extinguisher and then during the subsequent fight with Sherlock, when he'd found that the contents of said extinguisher had been commandeered for an "experiment."

John had been unapologetic and rather proud of Sherlock's resulting black eye, which had lingered for days.

"Sherlock- look this way! John- stand closer!"

Sherlock turned his grimace to John as John obligingly stepped closer to him and gave him a commiserating look with his eyebrows raised. They'd be out of this soon and he tried to convey this to Sherlock with a brusque nod, hoping he'd get the message and behave for the next few minutes. Just a little bit longer.

"Over here!"

"Look this way just a tic!"

"Give us a kiss!" Someone randomly called out (Sherlock would later swear it had been Lestrade) and suddenly it became a rallying cry.

"Yeah, kiss!"

"Kiss!"

"Show how much you love him!"

"Are you in love?"

"When's the wedding?"

"Kiss!"

"Who proposed to whom?"

"How'd he propose?"

"Is it true-?"

"Doctor Watson!- Sherlock!- over here!"

"Is it true you're planning to adopt?"

"Kiss!"

The cameras went _wild_, clicking madly, and the crowd of reporters jostled about, trying to get their questions heard, their recorders extended, faces alight. John could see Donovan laughing at the side of the room, her mouth covered by her hand, and Lestrade, red-faced from laughing, was taking a picture with his camera phone, preserving their moment of stunned and embarrassed disbelief for posterity. John decided that the next time Sherlock tried to pick-pocket Lestrade, he'd let him…and _encourage_ the behavior.

He risked a look over at Sherlock, who was staring at him, his expression unfathomable though no longer grimacing, and they exchanged a look and a mental shrug that John interpreted as: _People are idiots._

"Go on! Kiss!"

"How long have you been together?"

"Is he a good lover?"

"Does he wear the hat in bed?"

"Kiss!"

"This'll make the front page!"

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

John, realizing Sherlock wasn't about to say anything in this instance, cleared his throat and stepped forward, about to firmly demur-

Sherlock's hand shot out and seized John by the front of his jacket, pulling him close. He wrapped an arm around his back to bring their bodies together and bent John backwards slightly using his own body before roughly bringing their lips together. John's gasp was the perfect opportunity for Sherlock's tongue to force its way into his mouth and it swept inside, caressing the roof of John's mouth tantalizingly, the briefest tease of pressure, before pulling back so Sherlock could more firmly slot their lips together. His hands were to either side of John's head, tilting it, masterfully directing the unexpectedly heated kiss. He sucked John's bottom lip between his own, running his tongue along it before biting playfully, then attacking John's lips again.

John, stunned but loving it, was along for the ride, his hands gripping fistfuls of Sherlock's coat and following his minute directives, leaning further back as Sherlock pressed forward, hoping Sherlock didn't accidentally drop him.

Lips, tongues, and teeth all harmonized to culminate in a truly scorching kiss because if Sherlock Holmes were going to kiss John Watson under duress in a roomful of reporters, he was damn well going to do it _thoroughly._

When Sherlock pulled away- the kiss only lasted half a minute but John's sense of time was understandably a bit draggy at this point- John stepped away and gazed stupidly up at him, mouth open in astonishment. He realized he'd forgotten all about the roomful of people, the cameras, the officers- he'd even forgotten they weren't back at the flat and he could only stare at Sherlock who grinned at him (his _real_ smile, John noted with sweeping relief because if he'd faked that whole thing for the cameras…John didn't think he could take it) and entwined their hands together, _much_ to the delight of the cameras.

* * *

John was having a weird out-of-body experience, a moment of extraordinary, head-spinning, glorious realization.

_He and Sherlock were dating._

You've been dating for almost two weeks, a snarky part of his mind piped up…but he was just _now_ _realizing_ it. He blinked at the flashing cameras, the babble of voices all around them, Lestrade and Donovan's stunned faces, and looked down to where Sherlock's fingers were warmly twined with his own.

I'm…_dating_ Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, still wearing his hated deerstalker, was looking down at him, worried, tiny lines forming between his eyebrows as he stared at John and knew something was wrong. Sherlock, the man he'd fallen in love with all those months ago, the one he hadn't thought would return any of those sentiments…was now holding his hand after snogging him senseless in front of a roomful of complete strangers, basically declaring himself and his love and dedication to John.

_Holy fuck._

John was suddenly grinning like a mad-man, laughing, and the cameras were snapping away eagerly. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and Sherlock smiled at him, a soft, tentative smile before his defenses came up again and he turned away, dropping John's hand, and opening his mouth.


	12. Making Out-or Thereabouts

Hours after insulting every reporter in England, being yelled at then given the silent treatment by John, snogging John into a (much) better mood on the stairs, and after showering, being forced to eat, and applying a liberal amount of acid to the deerstalker while John was in the shower (resulting in a very large hole in the kitchen table that John had yet to discover) Sherlock was sprawled atop his boyfriend like a greedy octopus.

It had been a very productive day.

His head was cushioned on John's chest, arms wrapped around his body, and his legs tangled with John's on the small mattress. Sherlock knew it would be more practical for them to lay together on his bed, which was not only bigger but more comfortable, but there was something very _intimate_ about being on John's bed that he liked. It smelled like John and every surface his eyes alighted on characterized his boyfriend, was imbued with such John-ness that it was pleasant to look at.

Sherlock could hear John's heartbeat, a steady _thump, thump, thump_ that was hypnotic in its rhythm, its consistency, and symmetry. Currently, John was relaxed, his beats per minute at only 65, but earlier, when Sherlock had first pushed him down on the bed then climbed atop him, John's heart rate had been elevated, rapid and pounding. His respiration had increased, skin flushed, and his body had been tense beneath Sherlock's as Sherlock had blithely settled himself, arranging his limbs and pushing John about until he was comfortable. Slowly, John had calmed and Sherlock had listened and catalogued, been intrigued and aroused, however _his_ was less easy to detect and John had been unaware of the effect being so close to him had on Sherlock.

He let his mind wander as John carded his fingers through his hair, his fingertips dragging felicitously over his scalp and if Sherlock had been a weaker man, his eyes would have rolled back in his head at the contact. As it was, he only sighed deeply, which John interpreted correctly (really, his deductive skills were improving all the time) and continued the attention. This left Sherlock free to begin contemplating how he wished to spend the rest of the evening.

There were a few options available and he began weighing the merits of each. He knew John would have no objections, whatever he decided on.

* * *

John had been carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair for the past half hour, unaware that his boyfriend was planning his own deflowering above him,. He was now absently wrapping and re-wrapping a springy brown curl around and around his finger, reducing Sherlock to a semi-conscious, boneless mass atop him from the obviously coveted and longed-for affection. He'd been surprised today when Sherlock had kissed him, but now, with the comforting weight of the consulting detective atop him, John looked back on the kiss with happiness. He wanted to make sure and buy a newspaper tomorrow so he could see their picture (not that he'd _ever_ admit that to anyone). He remembered the hollow, achy feeling in his chest when their picture had appeared in the newspaper weeks ago after the fake bridal shop incident and how horrible he'd felt that what was depicted there hadn't been real.

Now, John thought with a grin, it was _real_…and it was all _his_. It made a happy, giddy feeling bubble up in his chest that reminded him of first crushes, being a clueless, hormonally driven teenager, and making an idiot of himself. He trailed his hands down Sherlock's back, rubbing him through the thin cotton, and Sherlock made a deep, purring, contented sound, squeezing his arms around John briefly.

It was sad, John thought lazily, plucking up another curl and twirling it about, how Sherlock seemed to soak up affection, almost as if he'd never had it before. He contemplated this, comparing Sherlock and Mycroft, wondering about their parents, what sort of home life they'd had, and picturing a young Sherlock with a riot of curly hair and large, inquisitive eyes being left alone and forgotten about by his parents while everyone around him called him a freak. All these thoughts made him rather sad so he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and gave him a hug, which made Sherlock sink even heavier onto John- if such a thing were possible- and clutch tighter.

John wasn't sure how long they lay on his bed, relaxing after the tedious case, both content in the silence of John's room and enjoying being close to each other. Before all this, John would've thought Sherlock would have been bored, restless, fidgeting and wanting to be up _doing something_- but it seemed he was always tranquil while they cuddled together- so long as there were no cases on. It made John feel happy, wanted, and he smiled, closed his eyes, and continued twirling Sherlock's hair, thinking of nothing in particular and just letting his mind wander.

He was just thinking of allowing himself to sink into sleep- it had been a tiresome day and the case had kept them occupied almost non-stop for the past few days- when Sherlock turned his head, dislodging John's fingers, and pressed a kiss to John's clothed chest. John went still at the contact, his breath catching in his throat, feeling the caress as if he didn't have a layer of cotton between his skin and Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock kissed him again, moved up and kissed again, then again, followed by one more kiss to John's collarbone, before he rose up, locking his elbows, and pressed a kiss to John's lips.

John sighed and allowed Sherlock to direct it, simply laying back, running his hands down Sherlock's sides, enjoying the feeling of intimacy. Sherlock hadn't instituted a ban on affection and kissing during cases (yet) but there hadn't been time for more than quick, passing pecks that had done nothing to alleviate the need John felt to kiss his new boyfriend. The kiss now was slow, leisurely, though anything but hesitant. There had been a sharp rise in Sherlock's confidence concerning intimacy, something John was celebrating and not questioning, merely reaping the benefits of. It seemed it was just something Sherlock had to get accustomed to, as before it wasn't something he had experience with.

Once again, these thoughts made John sad and so he shoved them away to contemplate at a time when his boyfriend _wasn't_ snogging him with increasingly heated intention.

Sherlock's body was suspended above him as they kissed and, after a few minutes, a small shift in his position brought certain important and definitely interested parts of his anatomy against John.

John's eyes flew open when he felt Sherlock's erection against his thigh and he was equal parts relieved, aroused, and alarmed. Should he reach down and palm it? Ignore it? Grind up against it? Pull away and congratulate Sherlock because it seemed like quite an impressively large erection? Maybe he should say something and go from there? That seemed like the best course of action…even if it wasn't perhaps the most romantic.

"You're enjoying this." _Fuck_. Smooth, John berated himself, real smooth.

Sherlock's lips quirked upward. "Is that a problem?"

"Uh, no…no, not a problem. At all. It's, yeah, it's…great."

Sherlock smirked and kissed him again and John allowed rational thought to splinter and dissolve.

Sherlock, after a second's hesitation, undulated his hips against John, rubbing himself against his thigh, pressing his stomach against the tented front of John's jeans. John, moaning, gripped his bony hips in his hands, not insistent but definitely…_urging_ him along, rolling his hips up to meet each of Sherlock's own thrusts. Sherlock, realizing John wanted this as much as he did, bore down on him in earnest, making John curse, and kiss him with enthusiasm, the kiss quickly turning into something much more heated and passionate.

John gently tipped Sherlock to the side, rolling him without breaking their kiss, and Sherlock allowed it, continuing onto his back. His heart fluttered alarmingly as John eased himself over until he was lying above him, effectively reversing their positions. It was such an intimate, vulnerable position to be in and Sherlock was working through all the implications of this when John's hand brushed against his erection through his trousers. Sherlock gasped raggedly, his eyes flying open, body going rigid, and John pulled away.

"Sorry- I thought- do you not want-"

Sherlock pulled him back into the kiss and thrust his hips up demandingly. He didn't think he'd be able to simply _tell_ John what he wanted at this point because his admirably fluent language skills had embarrassingly deserted him the moment John had touched his penis. John, thankfully, understood overt body language and placed his hand back where it had been, rubbing teasing circles against the taut fabric. He smiled into their kiss and Sherlock, annoyed at being apparently laughed at, reached down and grasped John's hard-on through his jeans.

"Haanngh!" John moaned in shock against his mouth, his body going rigid atop Sherlock and Sherlock smirked up at his surprised look.

"Bad man." John murmured, sealing their lips together again. His fingers traced the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and he allowed just the tips of his fingers to dip beneath, teasingly, loving it when Sherlock's lips went completely still beneath his own, his entire focus narrowing down to those few inches of skin John was touching. His hips shakily rose off the bed, an entreaty for John to go further.

"Are you sure?" John asked raggedly, unable to think much past the insistent weight of Sherlock's hand against his own cock, knowing Sherlock had never done this before with anyone else and _having_ to make _sure_ this was what Sherlock wanted.

"Yes." Sherlock frowned at the sound of his own voice, which was too breathy and unsteady and decided to stop talking.

John pulled away and stared at him, his jaw clenched, and Sherlock stared right back, his impatience starting to rise the longer John waited. He'd already decided he wanted this earlier in the evening and had thought John would be amenable. He swallowed thickly, suddenly becoming aware that his legs were shaking with nervous energy- when had that started?- and made a conscious effort to make them stop.

"Sherlock…we don't have to do anything. You know that." John said, his eyes serious, removing his hand from Sherlock's trousers. "It's all fine, whatever we do. You don't have to…force yourself to do something just because you think I want it."

Sherlock sighed raggedly. "It's not just _you_. I want…" The words lodged in his throat and he felt himself blushing at his inability to speak. He cleared his throat. "I want you…too."

John brushed his fingers across his flaming cheek and smiled, a soft, loving smile that made Sherlock's heart trip over in his chest. "We still don't have to do any of this right now. Not if you don't want-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation and John chuckled. "Ok, ok. Just checking. You'll tell me, though, if I'm doing something wrong? If you want me to stop?"

Sherlock nodded and John smiled at him, kissing him and then reaching down and dealing with the belt, button, and zip on Sherlock's trousers one-handed. He was tugging them down when he paused…and simply stared.

"You're not wearing any pants." John stated, wide, shocked eyes coming up to look at Sherlock.

"N-no." Sherlock stuttered and shivered as John's eyes darkened and he knew John was thinking of all the time's they'd been out together- and wondering if the entire time Sherlock had been pantsless. He could read John's face and every thought that flew across it. Sherlock blushed at some of them, was intrigued by others, and was finally annoyed that John _still_ hadn't removed his trousers.

Huffing, shy and embarrassed and therefore very annoyed at himself, Sherlock pulled his own trousers down and kicked them off the bed, then pulled John atop him before John had gotten a proper look at his newly naked boyfriend. Sherlock gasped at the contact, rolling his hips up in counterpoint to John as he thrust against him. He quickly realized he'd made a mistake, though, because in his urgency to get John atop him, he'd left John's jeans on and there were certain chafing issues that would occur if this wasn't remedied soon.

Sherlock fumbled between them and managed to unbutton and begin to unzip before John raised up on his hands and knees so Sherlock could finish the rest. John pulled away slightly, still kissing Sherlock and the next thing Sherlock knew, there was the soft _whump_ of John's clothes landing in the floor.

He pulled away to look in the floor, then in slight confusion at John, because he hadn't even _felt_ John disrobe and he prided himself on his observational skills. But there was the proof: a pile of jeans and pants on the floor and a gloriously naked-from-the-waist-down John Watson, his eyes glinting in amusement.

"I gather the name Three Continents Watson comes with a certain skill set." Sherlock said pointedly and John flushed and grinned.

He leaned over Sherlock and at the first brush of John's erect penis against his own, Sherlock gasped and looked down, taking in every detail, how they looked together, comparing length and thickness, deducing John until his boyfriend finally grasped his chin and turned his face up.

"Stop." He said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips and allowing him to draw him down over him. "You've no idea how awkward it is trying to get off with you and then you start bloody deducing me."

They set up a rhythm that started slow as they kept shedding clothes (Sherlock made sure to pay attention this time and wasn't impressed, but then perhaps John had more experience taking off his pants than he did his shirt? This was a worrisome but arousing thought and Sherlock stored it away for later). They began to go a bit faster until John pulled away and fumbled in his bedside table for lube, slicking them both up and taking them in hand, stroking masterfully over their cocks and watching as Sherlock felt apart beneath him.

"_John_." Sherlock was gasping breathily against his lips and _holy bloody fucking hell_ that was the hottest sound John had ever heard.

"Oh, god." He said desperately, tightening his grip and thrusting harder, his movements beginning to become shaky, imprecise, but Sherlock reached down and grasped John's buttocks, grinding up against him even harder. John's agonized moan was all it took and Sherlock came, driving his head back against the pillow as he arched his neck, eyes open in surprise, clutching John tightly to him. John felt the warm wetness spread over his hand and he gave another stroke and let go, his orgasm crashing over him, heightened and all the more magnificent because he was watching Sherlock still ride the waves of his own orgasm, a little voice in the back of his mind crowing over the fact that _he'd_ been the one who'd done that.

"Are you all right?" John asked huskily, kissing Sherlock's forehead while the younger man panted, his eyes closed. Sherlock nodded, eyes opening slowly, drowsily, his mind not yet back online in order to deal with all the implications and ramifications of what they'd just done. That would come later. Right now, he wanted to relax and sink boneless into the mattress, enjoy the lassitude his body was feeling.

"I'll be right back." John said, disentangling himself from the splay of limbs and shakily going downstairs to get a flannel to clean them up with. Sherlock was almost asleep when he heard John shout.

"What the bloody hell happened to our table?!"

* * *

**I apologize for nothing. I have always wanted to use the word "deflowering" in this fic and now I finally have and I am not ashamed. It may even crop up again sometime just because I like the word. Be warned.**

**Thanks for reading! I'll show my shameless self to the door now.**


	13. Spooning

**This is an early birthday present for the wonderfully talented Johnsarmylady (JAL) who has always been such a great supporter of anything I write. She's always there to encourage and be inspiring- while writing some of the best fanfiction on this site. Go check her out! Thanks so much, dear, and I hope you have an epic birthday! (sorry about the smut in your present *blushes*)**

* * *

"I saw your and John's picture today. In the newspaper?"

Sherlock's pipette hovered steadily over the petri dish as he precisely applied one-two-three drops of the agent he'd spent the last four hours carefully mixing. He watched closely as the resulting combination fizzed, bubbling rapidly, then turned a bright, poisonous shade of green. He whipped out his phone and began texting rapidly.

"The one where the two of you are, you know, kissing? It was a nicely done picture. The article was, too. Mentioned all your famous cases and John's blog-"

"Are there any fresh samples I could have?" Sherlock cut into Molly's rambling and gave her a piercing look he knew would disarm her. Sure enough, she blushed a bright red and began stammering, fiddling with her slightly shaking fingers nervously.

"Um…I-I don't think there's anything available, right now." She looked sad she wasn't able to provide him with anything but Sherlock knew there had to be _something_. Really, anything would do. He simply needed to test this agent on human tissue that could perhaps prove more resistant to the effects, thereby producing an increased rate of decay. "I'm sorry."

"Mmm." Sherlock turned back to his phone, sent his text, and then glanced over at Molly, smiling shyly. "I actually haven't seen the picture yet. Would you care to…?"

"Oh, yes, let me just…go and get it."

She walked away and Sherlock waited, tapping his fingers in agitation, formulating his strategy. Finally, Molly came back, clutching the newspaper and extended it.

"It made the front page of the entertainment section." She beamed at him, not noticing his look of disgust at being relegated to _entertainment,_ and he took the paper, glancing down at the photograph, suppressing the rush of heat that surged through his body at the sight. John was bent backwards, Sherlock's body pressing him that way domineeringly, his coat falling around them, hiding the way their bodies were melded together. John's eyebrows were high on his forehead from shock, though he was gripping Sherlock's coat, keeping them anchored together and obviously responding very enthusiastically to the kiss. Sherlock could just catch a glimpse of tongue between their joined lips and smirked.

The sensory memory of that event collided with what had taken place last night, producing an incredible high of jittery, squirming, awkward feelings and Sherlock swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. He had snuck out of John's bed early this morning, before his boyfriend was awake, shimmying out from under John's arm by inches so as not to wake him. The idea of still being there when John finally did wake up had made Sherlock's stomach twist and his body break out in a cold sweat.

After meeting with a few of his homeless network and solving a quick case of embezzlement at a bank, he had stayed at Bart's the rest of the day, working in the lab. He wasn't _hiding_, as his mind so frequently kept taunting him. He wasn't. What, pray tell, would he even be hiding _from_?

"It's a good picture." Molly piped up happily, rudely breaking into Sherlock's thoughts and he stealthily slid his eyes over to look at her. She was beaming at the picture, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced up at Sherlock from beneath her eyelashes.

_Gotcha_.

"Yes…it is." Sherlock purred, running his fingers over the newspaper, caressing, and Molly's eyes followed the movement. "I've always felt you were…helpful in bringing John and I together." Sherlock gave her another shy smile and ghosted his fingers along the back of her hand. "Thank you."

"Wh…I don't…I don't know I did anything." Molly protested, blushing, and looked very pleased, though a bit confused. Sherlock continued to look down at the photograph, allowing just a hint of how he was really feeling about seeing himself snogging John (very, very thoroughly) to creep into his expression before he looked back at Molly.

Molly bit her lip and shifted from foot to foot. "Are you still needing those samples?"

* * *

Hours later, when Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the flat, the ice in the Styrofoam chest rattling promisingly, it was to find the telly on to some inane daytime talk show with a loud clapping audience and John and Mrs. Hudson sharing the sofa. Mrs. Hudson was smiling, relaxed, and sipping tea. John was beside her, slumped against the cushions, clutching his own cup, his suit wrinkled and tie at half-mast, looking just a bit dejected, his eyes far away and not focused. It was obvious Mrs. Hudson had been attempting to cheer him up but hadn't been very successful.

_Went job hunting. Went to three- no, four different places, two of which were not worth the effort, one he really wanted. Results: obvious._

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson beamed at him and John straightened on the sofa, smiling. Sherlock noticed he seemed to brighten on seeing him, though there were still worry lines around his eyes that refused to go away. Still upset about being unemployed, lack of income, bills. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt but shoved it aside when John's eyes dropped to the Styrofoam chest he was clutching, the smile dropping from his face just as quickly.

"Ah, no. What's that?"

"Elbows and knees." Sherlock said shortly, briefly glancing down at the chest.

John sighed, his lips thinned down, before giving Sherlock a lopsided smile and Sherlock, despite giving him a bland look in return, felt himself flushing from what he felt to be a knowing look in John's eyes. He turned away before either John or Mrs. Hudson saw the heat creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks a fiery red. His mind, unbidden, recalled how John had looked above him, the way he'd touched him, the moans and gasps that had fallen from his own lips, and felt his body responding to the mental stimulus before reality crashed over him. He'd probably looked ridiculous last night, panting and begging beneath John like that, awkward, inarticulate, and inexperienced while John had been with loads of other people who had no doubt been much more suave than Sherlock. He was thankful he at least hadn't lisped, though it had been a near thing.

Sherlock, breathing deeply, placed the container on the counter and moved his equipment about on the table, careful to avoid the large hole, noticing with annoyance the way his fingers were shaking. Sherlock carefully set up his experiment, snapping on gloves and proper eyewear, then extracting a joint from his ice chest before putting the rest in the fridge. He set himself to the experiment he'd been devising on the way home, while his mind continued to wander.

Sherlock was also aware he'd reached orgasm much too soon, well below the national average, and that was something he needed to practice on…if John even wanted to do that again. He'd seemed to enjoy it at the time but today had probably given him time to think and realize how awful it had been. It seemed being a genius didn't necessarily make one a better lover, Sherlock ridiculed himself. What had he even done to John anyway, besides thrust against him mindlessly? In the end, John had made himself come, not from anything Sherlock had done-

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around and found John standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, frowning slightly. It was obvious this wasn't the first time he'd called Sherlock's name.

"Hmm?"

"You ok?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course."

"Ok. I just…Mrs. Hudson's gone downstairs. She asked us to eat with her tonight."

"Can't. Busy."

"You could pop in for a minute-"

"She's only asked "us" because you're depressed you couldn't find a job today. My being there isn't necessary for the evening to progress."

"Right."

John shifted in the doorway, debating with himself, then walked over to where Sherlock was sitting.

_Heart rate elevated._

_Increased respiration._

_Fingers shaking._

_Tightening of muscles._

_Strange feeling in abdomen._

_Sweet anticipation_ as John leaned down, bracing one hand on the table, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on what he was doing but he felt the blush steal into his cheeks and was certain John could feel the temperature change beneath his lips. When John pulled away, he stayed beside Sherlock, still leaning close enough that Sherlock could smell his body wash and the typical scent that was John, bringing with it a plethora of images, both discreet and erotic. His blush deepened and he closed his eyes in absolute mortification, knowing John was about to say something and point it out.

John paused and gazed at his supposedly blasé boyfriend. If it hadn't been for the very obvious blush, John would have wondered if Sherlock were even aware he'd given him a kiss. But it was there, along with other things Sherlock had done today, all totting up to one conclusion John wouldn't have thought would have ever occurred. He decided to ask, first, just in case he were wrong- as he usually was when it came to Sherlock.

"What's wrong? And don't say nothing because obviously something is."

Sherlock shrugged and shifted in his seat, not looking at John but not exactly seeing what was before him either.

"You left this morning, been gone all day, obviously avoiding me, and now you're acting like…"

"Like _what_?" Sherlock asked sharply, finally turning and pinning John with an overly hateful look, hoping this would keep him from continuing on.

"Like you're…embarrassed." John had almost said "shy" but didn't think Sherlock would have taken kindly to that word.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said dismissively, frowning. "What's there to be embarrassed about?"

"You tell me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to turn away but John was relentless.

"Is this about what happened last night?" There was no response from Sherlock, somewhat confirming that yes, this had to do with what happened, and John's stomach dropped in dread. "Did I do something wrong? Was it not what you-"

Sherlock huffed, his eyes averted, and cut John off. "There's no reason to lie, John. We both know it wasn't what you were expecting and to be honest, I expected I would be better at it but my research has confirmed that experience usually correlates with increases in performance, though I will understand if you never want to repeat what took place."

"What- you thought I didn't enjoy it?" John's voice was high with incredulity. "Is that what this is about?"

"Of course." Sherlock swallowed and forced himself to speak in a quick, emotionless voice, wanting to get this all out. "Not only did no penetration take place which is what your dates generally end in, I barely touched you, was largely incoherent, was _obviously_ inexperienced, reached orgasm much too quickly and-"

"What…is that what you thought? God- no!" John cupped Sherlock's cheek and forced the dim-witted idiot to look at him, their gazes locked. "I loved it- what we did- every second. I don't understand how you could think…_any_ of that, what you just said. There's no reason to be embarrassed about anything. Last night…last night was amazing. You're incredibly responsive and I…loved it."

Sherlock was frowning up at him, his eyes flicking between each of John's, trying to catch him in a lie, but John was in earnest. Hell, last night had been in-fucking-credible and he was seriously having a hard time believing that Sherlock had thought he hadn't enjoyed it. He had been there, after all, and was a genius. His deductions were usually accurate but then, he'd seemed more focused on other things so maybe he hadn't realized…

John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "And…about..you know, coming…If you didn't notice I…did as well, right after you." John felt himself blushing at his awkward phrasing but Sherlock caught it and John, relieved, saw his beautiful lips curve upward in a slight smile.

John smiled in return and leaned closer, brushing his lips against Sherlock's, hearing the other's man breath catch in his throat.

Somehow, they found themselves moments later, stretched out on the sofa, Sherlock's experiment (which really hadn't been that interesting in the first place) forgotten, the tall detective draped over John, kissing him. Sherlock pressed against him and brought his mouth down in a lingering, closed-mouth kiss that froze the air in John's lungs and left his head spinning. Sherlock slanted his mouth more firmly against John's, his hands coming up to cup his cheeks, before pulling away and tracing the edges of John's lips with the tips of his tongue.

"Ho-_ly_ fuck." John whimpered, opening beneath Sherlock without hesitation and groaned when he felt Sherlock's tongue against his own. Sherlock sucked his tongue- the sensation went straight to John's crotch, and his eyes snapped open- only to find Sherlock's already open, cataloguing his responses with a wicked light gleaming in those blue depths.

"Yoohoo, boys! I've got dinner ready!" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs, breaking the moment.

They both froze, breathing labored and loud in the sudden stillness of the flat.

"Not going." Sherlock whispered, starting where they'd left off.

John pulled his head away and gasped as Sherlock, feeling that yes, they should speed things up, excellent idea, John, began licking his way down John's neck.

"I already said we'd be there." John said regretfully and apologetically as Sherlock, scowling, pulled away and stared down at him. His pulling away brought their erections more firmly together and John hissed at the contact, closing his eyes, his hands spasming at Sherlock's sides. "We'll…pick this up where we left off. After. Promise."

* * *

Two interminable hours later, during which time Sherlock was unbelievably snappish, earning himself a stern talking-to from Mrs. Hudson, he and John were finally back in their own flat. A movie played on the telly which Sherlock was keeping up a pretense of watching while the entire time he actually watched _John_ out the corner of his eye. They were sitting together on the sofa, straight-backed and side by side, thighs not touching, hands in laps, feet on the floor, almost as if they were in a waiting room.

It was horrible.

Sherlock had thought, when they first sat down and the movie began playing, they would begin the puerile traditional of snogging while watching a film as if they were two teenagers on a date. Not that he was adverse to the idea. After an hour of just _sitting_ there, though, and waiting on John to make a move, give a sign, do _something_, Sherlock was on edge, mouth dry, jumpy, needy.

John, of course, was waiting on Sherlock to give a sign he was ready. He was the one who was inexperienced in this relationship and John didn't want to be forever jumping Sherlock and mauling him about. After all, it was possible that Sherlock had changed his mind and just wanted a quiet night in….

It was in that moment that John realized he was being just as stupid as Sherlock always said he was. There was no way _Sherlock_ would ever want a _quiet night in_.

He reached for Sherlock and the consulting detective _hurled_ himself at John with a relieved sigh.

Clothes were discarded carelessly, flung about the room in the haste to reveal more skin, to press themselves together and revel in the exhilarating contact of warm bodies sliding together. Sherlock tried to keep the gibberish noises from coming out his mouth but John encouraged him to be vocal and, after a few moments, during which time trousers were thrown away and pants were entirely dispensed with, Sherlock had entirely lost track of the embarrassing things he'd moaned at John. John seemed to love it, though, if the way he twitched at some of Sherlock's more inspired moans were any indication.

It was only when John pulled away, sliding enticingly against Sherlock before he knelt between the detective's splayed legs, that Sherlock felt that choking, gasping feeling of helplessness again.

"Do you want me to stop?" John asked gently, and Sherlock shook his head, annoyed.

His legs were trembling to either side of John again and Sherlock, with great effort of will, concentrated enough to make them slowly….slowly…stop. He breathed a sigh of relief that they were no longer jittery, but one touch of John's hand to either thigh as he spread his legs wider- and they were vibrating again, turning to jelly beneath John's warm touch and Sherlock wanted to cover his face with his hands and _hide_. It was embarrassing, the way his body was responding but he heard John chuckle and looked up to see him smiling.

"I love the way you respond." He whispered, seeming to read Sherlock's thoughts, running his hands over Sherlock's thighs again, moaning slightly when Sherlock's hips rose up at the contact. "Incredible."

John moved further back on the sofa and began kissing his way up one of Sherlock's thigh while his hand glided up the other and Sherlock lay as if paralyzed beneath the contact, his eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling, visualizing the path John's mouth was taking, knowing the destination, feeling as if his heart were in his throat.

John licked first, a brief, hesitant stroke of his tongue all the way up, circling the head, before going back down and Sherlock jolted, his hips moving restlessly against where John now had him pinned to the sofa so he wouldn't thrust up and gag him.

Sherlock fisted his hands in the cushion beneath his head and arched as John first took him in his mouth.

His whole body felt flushed, too warm, as if it were glowing red, and all that color and heat was centered where John was, where his mouth was eliciting sharp-edged pleasure that Sherlock was unable to register, unable to do anything except _take_ and try and catch up.

It was too much, too soon. Overwhelming. Painful. Pleasurable. Fantastic. Horrible. Push and pull. Going forward then moving back. He was dizzy, sweating, hyper-aware of every nerve ending, where he ended and John began.

Sherlock's hands fluttered, dithered, showed his inner turmoil as they weaved down his body then hovered over John's head, trying to decide whether he wanted to push John further down or pull him away fully…before anchoring themselves in the sofa. What was he supposed to do with his legs? He couldn't control his feet as they moved over the rough fabric of the sofa, kicking and skidding about as if trying to find purchase. Oh, god, it was too much, _too much…_

"Want me to stop?" John asked, pulling away, his voice roughened and lips red and Sherlock almost sobbed at the loss of sensation while he slumped in relief.

"No…It's not…_please_, John." Sherlock grated out and suddenly John was above him, supporting himself on his hands and knees, and kissing him, soothing him. Sherlock, sighing in relief, latched onto this affection and responded, threading his fingers through John's hair and pushing past his lips to taste himself on John's tongue. He arched beneath John, both wanting the contact and not, and John seemed to understand because he held himself immobile above Sherlock, giving him time to calm down and relax, time to organize his scattered thoughts like gathering up papers that had been tossed about by the wind.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into his mouth and Sherlock wanted to tell him there wasn't anything to be sorry for, but he was having trouble finding words and so only clung to John tighter and moaned.

Finally, Sherlock's heart stopped racing and he could breathe again. He still pulsed, _ached_, between his legs, but the overwhelming urge to panic was gone, replaced by the throb of arousal that made him pull away from John and push slightly on his shoulders, urging him back down.

John huffed out a laugh, his eyes sparkling, and obliged but not before nipping at Sherlock's neck and chest on his way down, just to get a little of his own back. Sherlock arched obliging at this contact and pushed slightly harder on John to urge him faster.

"Tell me if it's…too much again." John said and Sherlock nodded cooperatively, eyes wide as John hovered over, looking at him assessingly.

Sherlock had stayed hard through the snogging and now, when John delightfully brought his mouth back to the task at hand, he moaned at the feeling and, knowing what to expect, was able to correctly catalogue the sensations, organize them into compartments to be studied later with half his mind- while the other half allowed John to reduce him to base urges that, teased and stimulated amazingly, insistently climbed towards orgasm.

"John…John…I'm…you're…" If he hadn't been seconds from orgasm, Sherlock would have been properly embarrassed he wasn't able to form a cogent sentence. As it was, he suddenly didn't give a fuck because John moaned around him, hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, and if that wasn't an invitation Sherlock didn't know what was.

He came, pulsing in wonderful bursts of pleasure that left him feeling shattered, remade, and then wholly incandescent as the last wave of pleasure was over and John carefully pulled away.

He watched as John took himself in hand and stroked, his eyes focused on Sherlock, his other hand running up and down Sherlock's side, his stomach, his thighs, touching him reverently, biting his lips, opening his mouth and moaning, panting and finally- Sherlock raised up to watch this better- he came, eyes closing, face showing exquisite agony then boundless relief.

When it was over, Sherlock tried to pull him down but John resisted.

"We're filthy," he murmured, pulling a protesting Sherlock up from the sofa and steering him, still protesting, into the loo.

Once they were both cleaned up, amidst sleepy snogging and smiles and chuckles, John tugged Sherlock into his own bedroom and pushed him under the covers. He followed and curled along Sherlock's back, securing the taller man by wrapping an arm around his middle, and tucked his head against Sherlock's neck, bringing his knees flush against Sherlock's. He heard Sherlock make a contented sound and wriggle back against him and John almost told him what he had actually been wanting to tell him for months- but caught the words at the tip of his tongue at the last minute. It was probably too soon, he reminded himself, holding Sherlock tighter, and felt the other man's breathing begin to even out.

He'd tell him eventually. Not tonight, but soon.

* * *

**There was spooning in there. *sticks chin out stubbornly* The moment I realized the challenge prompts would be used very loosely. Nah, I will be better** **next time on the prompt.**


	14. Doing Something Ridiculous

"I'm sorry for all the trouble, John." Mrs. Hudson fretted, standing to the side of her sitting room as John panted and heaved her sofa into position…for the sixth time in the last hour.

"No…trouble." He groaned, dropping the sofa and straightening before leaning back and stretching to both sides so his back popped. He breathed a sigh of relief and waited for more orders. He knew they were coming. Having unlimited free time thanks to his unemployment had some perks- Sherlock seemed positively giddy that John could now focus all his time on him and their cases- but there were also downsides, _this_ being one of them. Spring cleaning had morphed into a need to re-arrange the entire flat for Mrs. Hudson and John had so conveniently been upstairs at the time.

Sherlock, the lazy git, had been upstairs too but he had claimed to be "busy" and refused to help. To John, he'd only been "busy" lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling but apparently that was "important to a case, John." Yeah right.

"That looks…decent." Mrs. Hudson said unconvincingly, looking about her flat despondently and John's heart sank as his back gave a sympathetic twinge.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to smile happily and hoped it didn't look like a grimace.

"Oh, you've already done so much…." Mrs. Hudson said, but John could see an idea forming behind her eyes even as she protested.

"It's all right. What-"

"I think that armchair should go in _that_ corner." Mrs. Hudson replied, pointing imperially and John was forcefully reminded of a general directing troops. "Then perhaps-"

_**BOOM!**_

The entire flat shook, pictures fell off the walls, dust rained down from the ceiling, and both John and Mrs. Hudson ducked, Mrs. Hudson shrieking and John suddenly being mentally thrust back to a place full of staccato gunfire that smelled of blood and death.

"_Sherlock_!" They both screamed, one rather angry at their flat apparently being blown to smithereens and the other frightened as multiple causes for such a blast taking place and the injuries that could be thusly sustained raced through his head. Not that he had to force himself to imagine- John had seen men blown to bits and pieces firsthand and the images came readily, without his consent, making his stomach churn in dread and revulsion.

John, his eyes wide and panicked, raced from the room and bounded up the stairs, pushing open the flat door, multiple terrifying scenarios running through his head- Sherlock blown to bits, cut up and bloody, mangled, brain matter, body parts everywhere-

There was too much smoke in the flat for John to see anything and he pulled back, coughing, as smoke billowed from the room. He paused long enough to pull his shirt over his mouth and nose before plunging into the flat. There was no visible source of fire but John couldn't tell as the smoke was obscuring everything in a dim twilight, making his eyes smart and water. Blinking rapidly, he stumbled his way to the window with the intention of opening it, only to find the glass blown out, the thick, grey smoke leaking out into the street where he could hear shouting and the distant approach of a fire engine.

"Sh-_coughcough_- _Sherlock_!" John coughed and hacked, his lungs protesting at the influx of choking smoke, as he frantically searched the dim flat for the madman he shared it with. His heart beat out a pounding rhythm of _please let him be ok, please let him be ok, please let him be ok._

After a minute frantically searching, John found Sherlock in his bedroom, sitting on his arse in the floor in front of the now blasted-apart radiator, which was still smoking copiously. John could see a small flame flickering from the depths of the charred remains and paused to wonder what the hell had started the fire. The radiator was old and hadn't been used in _ages, _not since he and Sherlock had moved into the flat at any rate. Probably not for years and years before then anyway. He hadn't even thought it was still fitted up to turn on…but apparently Sherlock had remedied that.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and shocked, his eyebrows burned away, hair blown comically back from his face and smoking at the scorched tips. He turned his head and stared at John, his face still etched in absolute astonishment.

In any other situation, John would have found the entire thing abso-fucking-lutely hilarious.

As it was, his legs suddenly went weak and shaky and he found himself sitting on his arse in the middle of Sherlock's bedroom floor with no memory of how he'd gotten there, trying to breathe and feeling light-headed from relief and smoke inhalation.

"John."

John looked up when Sherlock, his voice rough and scratchy, said his name. From the looks of it, Sherlock was quickly recovering from his shock, regaining some of his usual arrogance, though it was still diminished- and the lack of eyebrows made it _very_ hard to carry off. He was cradling his arms and hands to his stomach in a rather odd way and it was that, more than anything else, that propelled John from his shock and he crawled across the soot-darkened carpet, his legs still too weak to support him.

"_What the hell did you do_?" John demanded angrily, his earlier fear and panic making him irrationally angry at Sherlock for putting himself in harm's way and scaring him like that.

"The radiator. It was for a case where the woman killed her husband….made it look like an accident but I…I just…"Sherlock, for once at a loss for words, shook his head and glanced back at the blackened hunk of twisted metal which had clearly let him down. "Those were not supposed to be the results-"

"So you thought you'd blow yourself up in the process? Are you an _idiot_?"

Sherlock's head whipped back around and he glared at John, his pride smarting from his mistake as well as John's words. "I-"

"_Jesus_, look at your _hands_." John moaned, reaching for Sherlock but drawing back at the last second, hissing in sympathy. Both Sherlock's hands and forearms were covered in red, shiny burns that were already starting to blister. They had to be agonizing and John staggered to his feet, running to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit, calling over his shoulder for Sherlock to remain fucking there or _else_.

The next few minutes were an excited blur. The firefighters arrived en masse and put out the small fire still crackling merrily in the burned out radiator, giving Sherlock and John nasty looks for the wasted effort and for frightening everyone on the block. Mrs. Hudson arrived in the flat and started yelling about the mess and the windows, holding her head as she surveyed the damage.

"And you, young man! What the bloody hell were you thinking?" she snapped at Sherlock, who was sitting on his bed, grudgingly allowing John to tend to his burns. "You could've killed yourself, Sherlock. Make sure he goes to the hospital, John- those burns look nasty."

"It'll smell like smoke in here for _ages_!" she sighed fretfully before retreating back downstairs to make herself a large tea and take an herbal soother.

"Will you be needing an ambulance?" one of the firefighters asked. He was a younger man, obviously new on the job, who'd seen humor in the situation and had found Sherlock's lack of eyebrows rather amusing- until catching sight of his burns and then wincing. He'd proceeded to tell what he thought was an interesting story about the worst burn victim he'd ever seen, in a wretched attempt to put the situation in perspective, but John had cut him off, noting the look of intrigue in Sherlock's eyes and refusing to encourage such behavior.

"Yes-"

"_No_."

"Sherlock-"

"_You're_ my doctor. Heal me." Sherlock declared imperiously, his chin rising in the air. John noticed soot marks on his neck which somewhat ruined the haughty effect.

"I think these are second degree." John said seriously. "I _think_. It's hard to tell with burns like these. They could continue to evolve into third degree the more time passes. Even if they stay second degree, they can get infected easily and these….are extensive." John inspected the large blisters that had already formed over Sherlock's arms and hands. "This needs stitches, too." He removed the towel from Sherlock's leg to check on the cut there that Sherlock had tried to hide from him earlier, when he'd realized just how angry John actually was. "More than one or two."

Sherlock sighed, pouted, and turned away, allowing John to nod that yes, an ambulance was needed. He was checking Sherlock's burns again while they waited for the arrival of the ambulance, when the young firefighter, who'd been staring hard at both Sherlock and John, suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Oi! I know you two! You're Sherlock Holmes and John! Them blokes from the papers! Me mum was right chuffed to learn the two of you were engaged- and about time too! We thought it'd be ages. She's always been going on about how great you looked together and all that. Reads your blog all the time, Mr. Watson-"

"_I_ have a blog." Sherlock cut in irritably and the firefighter chuckled a bit.

"She doesn't read that one. Not much on there she understands. All that tobacco ash, I dunno."

John laughed along with the firefighter while Sherlock quietly began what was to become an epic, days-long sulk.

The two continued laughing and joking, apparently having a lot in common, until the ambulance arrived. John rode in the back with Sherlock, chatting pleasantly with the pretty, young EMT while Sherlock received, in his opinion, rather roughshod treatment from the other stone-faced and large bosomed EMT.

He and John were separated once they reached the hospital and when John finally found Sherlock almost an hour later, he was beaming and seemed very content. If Sherlock didn't know John were devoted to him (as well as being able to deduce everything about his boyfriend and therefore reach satisfying conclusions) he would have assumed the pretty EMT had given John a header in some supply closet.

"There you are." John said, happiness creeping into his voice and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John was supposed to be angry at him. "How're you feeling?"

"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked petulantly, trying to lift the information from John's clothing and demeanor but all he got was "hospital." Obviously.

"Uhh…around. Yeah, they wouldn't let me come back while they were treating you- not family and all that. Came as quick as I could, though."

John was avoiding eye contact, scratching his neck, shifting from foot to foot. He'd done something he knew Sherlock wouldn't like. Sherlock felt his heart drop and his mind began racing, trying to sort it out.

"So, what'd they do?"

"It's all in my chart." Sherlock said impatiently, not lifting his hand from where it lay on the bed. Both his arms had been sterilized, covered in antibiotics, and then wrapped gently in loose bandages. His hands, he'd thought rather humorously earlier, looked like mummy hands. Sherlock remembered some sort of movie John had forced him to watch with mummy's and all that and had been ready to joke with John about it…but now, as John flipped casually through his chart, hiding something from him, Sherlock didn't feel like laughing.

"Gave you over the counter pain medication….tetanus shot…stitches…wow, 5, seems a bit much…" John was murmuring to himself as Sherlock watched him, his arms throbbing slightly but not insistently as they had earlier. The workers had refused to give him something stronger and Sherlock had known that John would take it from him anyway.

"Where were you?"

John raised his eyes to look up at Sherlock, licking his lips. "I told you-"

"Don't play dumb with me, John, it won't work. You're hiding something from me."

John sighed, puffing his cheeks out, and replaced Sherlock's chart back at the end of his bed before slowly walking around the bed and standing at Sherlock's head.

"Look…it's nothing bad. I was going to tell you when we got back to the flat but…"

John paused and Sherlock found he was holding his breath.

"They offered me a job. Here, at the hospital. And I took it."

* * *

**So what was done that was ridiculous? Was it Sherlock's experiment with the radiator? Or John's getting a job at the hospital? Well, it's all about perspective and who you ask. Hint: If you want the correct answer, I wouldn't ask Sherlock.**

**Many thanks go to the lovely ladies at Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen for telling me about radiators and their use, or lack thereof, in London. I had to have Sherlock blowing one up though, so here we are :) Still, many thanks!**


	15. Doing Something Together

As far as John could tell, Sherlock hadn't left the sofa in two days.

He refused to talk, refused to eat, and only grudgingly allowed John to tend his burns. Even then, he thrust an arm in John's direction and turned his head, refusing to further acknowledge his boyfriend who had so unreasonably taken a job he disapproved of. John was amused for the most part at Sherlock's childish antics, but couldn't help a small twist of unease over the fact that Sherlock was so angry at him. Not that he hadn't been mad at John before, and John wasn't going to stop doing things just because they made Sherlock annoyed…but this was the first time since their becoming a couple that he was so furiously pouting. John, knowing he was being stupid, couldn't help but worry very slightly that Sherlock would end things with him.

This wasn't helped that Sherlock assiduously rejected any advance for affection John made with irritated sighs, eye rolling, and ducking his head away from John's lips. John had at first tolerated this with indulgent smiles and giving Sherlock the space he thought he needed. Forty-eight hours later, John was less amused by this rejection and more…hurt. He knew he was being punished, as only Sherlock could do, for taking the hospital job, but, as he'd explained to Sherlock in the hospital, he needed an income.

"I don't have a bloody trust or whatever it is you get money from. I've only got one little savings account and it's…diminished since I got fired." That had been an understatement. His money had gotten alarmingly eaten in to by rent, covering his half of the bills for the flat, much needed new clothes when his got shredded during cases, groceries, etc. It all totted up pretty high and his pension barely made a dent in it.

Sherlock had snorted dismissively and laid his head back on his bed. "It's not necessary for you to work."

"What? Are you going to keep me up?" John asked derisively, his laugh dying off as Sherlock gazed at him levelly. Obviously, yes. John swallowed.

"_No_, Sherlock. I'm not going to be your…your kept…_man_." John blushed and ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how he'd arrived at having this discussion with Sherlock. It seemed entirely surreal. "I need to make my own money-"

"Because it makes you feel more independent, like your own man, alpha male, etc, etc." Sherlock sneered, making it sound stupid of John to want such things. "You would be earning your own way with me as my assistant and-"

"And shagging you every other night?" John cut in, his voice hard. "Would you pay extra for that or is access to your body considered a perk of the job? Sherlock…the idea of you _keeping me up_ is bollocks. It'd cock everything up and I don't want to put that sort of strain on our relationship."

"You already use my card for the grocery shopping." Sherlock had pointed out mercilessly and John had shifted, uncomfortable at the reminder. Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice he was making John feel bad, so caught up in his own argument and bad temper. "I already pay more than half of the rent, the bills aren't that expensive, and my _bloody trust_ would be enough to leave us very comfortable-"

"_No_. Sherlock. No. I won't let you. You'd either end up resenting me or I would you. It's just…not good."

Sherlock had fallen silent and John had seen the thrust of his lip that signaled a pout, though his grey eyes were flashing and bright, angry, and John had sighed.

"Look…it'd only be part time. I'll still be able to…go out and help with cases. I'll still be around. I just…I need this job, Sherlock. I'm going to take it."

The next morning, when Sherlock had been released from the hospital, he'd ridden back to Baker Street with John in a cab and then encamped himself on the sofa, not to rise again.

While he sulked over John's job, the windows in the flat were replaced and the blasted apart radiator removed, leaving a hole in Sherlock's bedroom wall that had yet to be fixed. The worst of the burn marks were scrubbed away- no thanks to Sherlock for helping- but traces of them lingered and the carpet was still sooty. The flat smelled faintly of smoke, despite John and Mrs. Hudson's best attempts at airing it out and spraying various aerosols throughout.

"I'll have to hire a professional." Mrs. Hudson lamented and John smiled sympathetically, silently agreeing. He and Mrs. Hudson stood in the kitchen of 221B, sipping the tea and eating the large breakfast Mrs. Hudson had brought up as a "Good luck with your new job!" present for John.

John was all dressed and ready to go to the hospital but it wasn't his first day on the job. Today would be taken up with the requisite paperwork and showing him around and describing everything he already knew in excruciating detail. Summing up the job, meeting his new co-workers, getting the measure of everything- John felt nervous and excited at the same time, but couldn't help throwing a glance into the sitting room where Sherlock lay with his back to the room, pretending no one was there, and letting his own tea and breakfast go cold.

"He'll come around to the idea." Mrs. Hudson whispered, following John's gaze into the sitting room. "He's just upset you won't be around all the time. You know how he is."

"Yeah, I know." John whispered back, swallowing around the nervous lump in his throat that Sherlock wouldn't be pleased with him for a long time to come.

After Mrs. Hudson had finished wishing John good luck, tried and failed to speak to Sherlock, and gone back downstairs, John walked into the sitting room.

"Sherlock, you need to eat something."

There was no response from the ball of consulting detective on the sofa. John smiled over at it and tried again.

"Sherlock, you know I won't be here to make you eat today. You could at least eat the toast."

No reply.

"You haven't eaten in the past two days and I've been very good about it. I know you'll get hungry today because there's no cases on but I'll be gone-"

"There's no _need_ for you to be gone." Sherlock replied petulantly, still not uncurling from his fetal position.

"We've been over this." John said wearily, not surprised when Sherlock ignored him, curling into a tighter position on the sofa.

John set the plate of toast down on the coffee table and started to walk away, then pivoted at the end of the sofa and regarded Sherlock. He could tell his eyes were open, though they were staring at the back of the couch.

"I'll be back in a few hours."

No response.

John sighed and moved to get his coat, tugging it on with sharp, aggravated movements. He didn't tell Sherlock goodbye and the baby on the sofa didn't volunteer either.

* * *

A few hours later, when John trudged up the stairs to the flat, his mind mulling over everything he'd learned, the people he'd met, the forms he'd signed, he felt tired but ready to start his new job the next day. He smiled, satisfied in a way he hadn't been since he got his last job, already envisioning his first paycheck and exactly what he'd spend it on…when he opened the door to find Sherlock in the same position he'd left him in.

In that moment, John decided enough was enough. He'd humored Sherlock for long enough and they were going to have this out. Right now.

"I'm back." John greeted him and it was a testament to the strength of Sherlock's sulk that he refused to snap at John that "_Obviously_ he was back. He had eyes."

"Sherlock."

No movement, no reply. Silence.

"Come on, this is ridiculous. You haven't eaten, you haven't even _moved_ from that sofa in two whole days. I'm just going to _assume_ you've been going to the loo. You haven't even showered." John continued. "You smell like smoke. Come on. Get up and get showered then we'll find you a case."

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and glared at John while his boyfriend fought to keep a smile from his face. Sherlock without eyebrows looked…odd. At first John had been more concerned with his burns and other injuries, but once the nurses had scrubbed the soot from his face to check for further burns, John couldn't help silently laughing at Sherlock. His forehead was much too large now and his eyes looked enormous in the pale, hairless expanse of his face. Now, though, wasn't the time to openly mock him. Maybe later when they weren't rowing.

"I can see your day went well."

"Uh…yeah. Everyone seems nice, friendly. Think I'll like it there."

From the way the skin over his left eye pulled, John _thought_ Sherlock may have been trying to raise a skeptical eyebrow but….well, that wasn't possible anymore. Rather ruined the effect of all his arrogance.

"_Wonderful_, John." Sarcasm was thick in that small statement and John rolled his eyes.

"Come on. Get up, get showered, and we'll find you a case. I know you've got to be bored."

"Not in the slightest."

"You're going to make this difficult aren't you?"

"You know my methods."

"Fine. If you don't want a case at least get showered. I can smell you from here."

A slight blush stained Sherlock's cheeks and he turned his back to John, burrowing his eyebrowless face into the sofa.

John frowned at his back for a few seconds before understanding swept over him in a sudden rush. It was like Sherlock to be so mad at John he wouldn't ask for his help, but John still felt badly. He should have known for himself, being a doctor.

"You can't do it yourself."

"I'm not allowed to get these wet." Came the stroppy reply, muffled in the cushions as Sherlock raised one arm, still covered in white gauze.

Sudden and heady desire spiraled through John's body at the implications: Sherlock, naked in the shower, warm water sluicing down his body, arms held out to the sides, entirely powerless to do anything. Lathering him up with suds, being very, very thorough as he washed him… John _felt_ his pupils dilate in arousal and cleared his throat.

"I can…" His voice came out too husky and low and he cleared his throat again. Sherlock turned round at the sound. "I could help you. With that. I won't…do anything. Just…help you get clean."

Sherlock stared at him, his face expressionless, before his eyes flitted down John's body then back up to his face.

"I'm a doctor so I can…be professional. I know you don't want…any of that so I could just-"

"You'll need to wrap these in plastic wrap."

John nodded shortly. "Right." He felt stiff as he walked into the kitchen to find the wrap, trying to force his mind to stop picturing Sherlock nude in the shower- because he was going to be faced with that scenario in less than five minutes and he really needed to get control of himself.

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of him, under the spray of the water, looking like a wet dream come true, and John blushed when he felt himself growing hard. He pretended he wasn't hard (Sherlock was ignoring it, too), and cleared his throat, reaching for his professionalism. It was there somewhere…he just had to locate it.

John winced when he imagined how awkward this would be if he and Sherlock were still just friends. A nightmare, bloody awful. He wouldn't have been able to hide his arousal from the consulting detective, who would have known what it meant in an instant and he would have been out looking for a new flat.

John couldn't hide his arousal _now_ from Sherlock, but at least the infuriating man wasn't surprised by it. He'd briefly thought about keeping his clothes on to do this but it seemed stupid to step in the shower fully dressed when he knew he was going to get wet. He'd look like a berk and it would just be senseless to do.

Okay, time to get this over with.

"Right. Hair first or… Right." John shook his head and fumbled for the shampoo bottle as Sherlock ignored him and leaned back into the spray to wet his hair, extending his throat invitingly and John wrenched his eyes away from the sight, pouring shampoo into his hand.

It was only when Sherlock brought his head forward again, his hair dripping, that John realized a problem- the height difference. He could wash Sherlock's hair like this, reaching up and on his toes, but it would be awkward and require a lot of moving about and awkward angles. It'd be much simpler to just…no…_God, no_.

Sherlock was already sinking to his knees and John felt his face flame with color when this put Sherlock right at eye level with his very interested and happy at this turn of events cock. John stared down at the top of Sherlock's head, feeling his heart trying to beat out of his chest, and, as if watching someone else do it, began to lather Sherlock's hair. His hands were steady and he scrubbed through those curls, trying not to imagine doing this while Sherlock-_ stop it. Holy fucking bloody hell, stop it, John!_ Think about something else, anything else. Rugby, Mrs. Hudson- _no_, stop, that's even more wrong when he had an erection- cases! The most disgusting one he could think of-

John, firmly fixing the mutilated corpse in his head, dragged his fingernails lightly over Sherlock's scalp, scrubbing harder-

Sherlock moaned, a wonderfully decadent sound that echoed in the shower, and John's hands froze. He glanced down but Sherlock smoothly stood up, his expression glacial and forbidding.

"Shield my face." He commanded and John reached up to keep the soap from getting in Sherlock's eyes as he leaned back and rinsed his hair, turning his head from side to side, and this time John let himself unabashedly stare, tracking the path of the water down Sherlock's neck to his pale chest.

"Soap." Sherlock said icily and John snapped out of his reverie, clearing his throat and tearing his eyes away.

"Right."

After a bit of awkward maneuvering, Sherlock and John switched positions so Sherlock was no longer under the spray and John reached around and grabbed the body wash, lathering up the flannel and steeling himself.

He started washing Sherlock's neck first and risked a glance up at his boyfriend's face. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on a point somewhere above John's head and to the right, still in full pout mode and obviously trying to pretend that his boyfriend weren't rubbing his body.

John released a shaky breath, ignored his arousal, and set to the task.

Arms, first the right, then the left, making sure to skip over the plastic wrapped bandages and hands on both sides.

Chest, trying not to notice the way Sherlock tensed when he dragged the cloth over his nipples.

Hips, unable to keep his eyes from straying to Sherlock's cock, which was only mildly interested in the proceedings, making John's cheeks burn that he was the only one aroused.

John knelt and ran the cloth up Sherlock's legs, keeping his eyes on the cloth, not daring to look up. Right leg, left leg, stand up…hesitation.

John glanced back up but Sherlock was still staring off into the distance.

Okay.

John, licking his lips, tentatively ran the cloth over Sherlock's cock. He tried to be businesslike, professional, and just get this done but then Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering closed.

"_Sherlock_-"John stared huskily.

"My back." Sherlock quickly turned around and John just stared, lust hammering through his body with each beat of his heart, suddenly not sure if he was going to make it through this. He was so turned on he was almost shaking. This was very, very not good.

He swallowed thickly and raised the cloth, trailing it down Sherlock's back and Sherlock arched enticingly beneath him, moaning again. John cursed and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's back and bringing his hands up to palm his sides.

Sherlock shook him off in irritation. "Finish."

John _may_ have groaned but hearing Sherlock's icy voice was enough to snap him out of his fog of arousal and he scrubbed Sherlock's back, his arse, trailed the cloth unerringly between his cheeks- not even allowing himself to think of _anything_- and was done.

_Thank God._

"There."

John pressed against the side of the shower so Sherlock could turn and rinse himself off, keeping his eyes focused away from his maddening boyfriend. Sherlock had made it clear he didn't want John to do anything sexual but he didn't trust himself not to molest Sherlock if he kept torturing himself by staring at him and fantasizing. They were fighting- or well, Sherlock was angry and being stroppy and John didn't think it would be fair of him to try and seduce him. He'd feel badly about it. God, he hated himself.

When Sherlock moved again, John, breathing heavily, turned his back to Sherlock to rinse out the flannel, expecting Sherlock to get out of the shower. Instead, Sherlock pressed against him from behind and John jumped when he felt a warm pair of lips on his shoulder. He couldn't stop the tormented moan from tearing its way from his throat and he closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side to give Sherlock more access. He felt the taller man smirk against his skin.

"Thank you for your assistance…Doctor Watson." Sherlock breathed, sucking John's earlobe into his mouth, giving him the barest hint of teeth, making John's entire body break out in goose flesh.

"Sherlock." John choked as the man placed kisses along his neck then licked a quick line back up to John's ear…before Sherlock stepped away and out of the shower, leaving John, pulse racing and wide-eyed, behind.

* * *

**This was totally doing something together! :D **

**Well, we're halfway through this. 15 more chapters to go!**


	16. Doing Something Sweet

"-why you have to leave them out to rot. And you shouldn't keep up this business of being mean to John, young man. That boy works hard and he still finds time to help you with all those cases…"

Sherlock drowned out Mrs. Hudson's incessant talking, as he had been trying to do for the past half hour, and tried to focus on his laptop instead, skimming through his e-mails for a distraction.

"-you know it's unfair of you, Sherlock. He needs a job just like anyone else. What if he asked you to give up all your cases and then pouted at you when he didn't get his way? He's always-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't you have somewhere else to be besides annoying me?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, young man!" Mrs. Hudson reprimanded, abandoning her cleaning of the kitchen and coming into the sitting room to pin Sherlock with a glare. "I won't stand for that in my house! I'm cleaning _your_ kitchen-"

"I thought you _weren't_ my housekeeper."

"I'm _not_. This is a favor for John, bless him. It's not easy working twelve hour shifts and then coming home to…" Mrs. Hudson trailed off, flapping her rag at the kitchen, unable to put into words the horrible state it was in.

Sherlock unremorsefully glanced at it then back to his laptop. Perhaps he _had_ gotten a little carried away with his experiments last night, but he'd been ridiculously pleased at getting John back with that shower- even if he'd wanted to push John against the tiles and have at him the entire time. It had been especially hard to keep his body's reactions under control when he saw how aroused John was, saw his shaking hands, his flushed face, the set of his jaw as he stoically restrained himself. Knowing how much John wanted him had steeled his resolve and Sherlock had mercilessly teased him, deciding this was much more fun and proved his point very effectively.

And it had given him the best high imaginable when John had stared at him the rest of the night when he thought Sherlock wasn't aware. He'd barely been able to concentrate…which could explain the mess the kitchen was currently in.

"Not to mention you making him feel bad at every turn. He's got enough on his plate at the moment without his boyfriend being mean to him."

Sherlock refused to respond, ruthlessly tamping down on the surge of happiness he always felt at being referred to as John's boyfriend, and began typing nonsense words on his laptop just to give the impression he was too busy to have this discussion with Mrs. Hudson.

Sadly, there weren't any cases to distract him, no odd disappearances, not even any strange affairs to keep his attention…and even if there were he was secretly hiding out in the flat until some of his eyebrows grew back in. He did _not_ need photographs of himself sans eyebrows floating around Scotland Yard.

He did have _some_ pride.

"Is it really so terrible John has his own job?" Mrs. Hudson asked gently, ignoring the annoyed eye roll she got from Sherlock. "You saw his face this morning- he was positively giddy at starting this job."

Sherlock typed harder, his brow furrowed. John _had_ looked very happy this morning, practically beaming as he got ready, humming under his breath. Sherlock, still snubbing him, had nonetheless covertly tracked his movements around the flat, feeling hollow after John had left with a cheery farewell.

"I just think it'd be nice if you could be _happy_ for John. He's good at what he does and he enjoys it." Mrs. Hudson said, not unkindly, before going back to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts.

He snapped his laptop shut and set it to the side, sliding down until he was once again prone on the sofa, frowning up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he listened to Mrs. Hudson humming, occasionally cursing or crying out as she found something black or disgusting but she carried on with her cleaning.

She was one brave soul, Sherlock thought with a twist of his lips.

So was John.

_John_. Sherlock opened his eyes again and pressed his hands together beneath his chin. He knew he was punishing John for taking the hospital job and he knew John knew- really, what was the point in punishing someone and wasting the effort of ignoring them if they didn't know you were angry at them?

Well, it wasn't that he was angry, exactly. Perhaps he had been at first because he'd been shocked and yes, he had genuinely thought he and John had come to an arrangement that involved Sherlock providing for them and John being his assistant. Sherlock distinctly remembered discussing this with John at length one afternoon but…it was entirely possible John may not have been present at the time the conversation took place. That didn't make it Sherlock's fault, though. John shouldn't have left the flat at such a crucial time. Sherlock still thought it was a good idea, firm, sound, perfectly sensible- and John treated it like an aberration.

But Sherlock could very grudgingly identify with what John wanted- his own money, his own job, independence, a feeling of usefulness. Wasn't that why he had moved from under Mycroft's thumb? Wasn't that what drove his life- running from boredom and indolence that made his brain feel as if it were rotting? John wanted the same thing, wanted to feel useful and feel as if he were contributing in some great way to life.

Why couldn't John have that _with Sherlock_, though? He knew John loved helping him, even if he got annoyed and angry and shouted, and he never laughed as much unless they were risking their lives on exciting cases. John was an adrenaline junkie if Sherlock ever met one, and it only made sense he would want to be around the place where he got his strongest hit- Sherlock.

What if he found that _outside_ of Sherlock?

Sherlock growled and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, wanting to dismiss that thought but unable to.

"Is something wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asked, popping her head back into the sitting room.

"Go away." Sherlock replied, still grinding and hating this pedestrian feeling of insecurity that kept cropping up with stunning regularity in relation to John. He'd never felt this way before they became romantically involved but he'd known it would happen. It was disappointing to be proven right, especially over something so…ridiculous.

He heard Mrs. Hudson sigh but retreat back to the kitchen and, after more minutes of berating himself and sulking- the fun of which was diminished when no one was there to try and joke him out of it- Sherlock flung himself up and off the sofa, striding into his bedroom and slamming the door.

* * *

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." John grinned tiredly, accepting the casserole dish with heartfelt thanks from the smiling older woman.

"Just heat it up. I thought you'd be getting back earlier than this…"

"It's fine. I did too but someone called in sick for the shift after me so I stayed for a bit… Thanks, though." John juggled his briefcase while clutching the glass dish carefully. He hadn't expected to be intercepted just when he'd walked through the front door, but he was pathetically grateful for dinner. He hadn't looked forward to take out, nor rifling through the fridge, which seemed to have finally reached the point where there were more experiments than things edible.

"Not a problem dear. I was already cooking for our ladies luncheon and thought you might like something hot. I know how it is…"

John smiled and nodded while Mrs. Hudson kept talking, trying not to be rude but really just tired and wanting to sit down, eat, then shower and go to bed. Bed. The very idea made his eyes heavy with sleep and he valiantly suppressed a yawn as Mrs. Hudson chuckled at some anecdote about the ladies she lunched with. Or something. John wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her correctly.

"…well, I'm sure you're tired, John. I'll let you go upstairs. Fair warning, he's still in his mood."

"Um…thanks for telling me." John replied, wincing at Mrs. Hudson's pitying look and started gratefully up the stairs, his feet aching. His job at the surgery with Sarah had been easy compared to this. Working at a busy hospital in the A&E required more running around, more patients, thinking on his toes, and, as Mycroft would term it, "legwork." John loved it, first day problems and unexpectedly staying late included.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when John opened the door to the flat, and he felt his shoulders slump. Probably a new case, and he's still mad enough not to tell me. It was disheartening and expected, but John still felt the sting. He thought about sending off a text but hesitated, not wanting to sound clingy and like he was trying to plead with Sherlock to stop being angry. Because he wasn't. The selfish git could stay angry, as far as John was concerned. He was almost convinced.

Sighing, he dropped his briefcase in his armchair and then set the casserole on the table, glancing happily around at the clean and shiny surfaces. Mrs. Hudson had promised, despite John's adamant refusal to allow her to do such a thing, she would clean today and the wonderful woman had delivered on her word. Fantastically.

After putting some of the casserole in the microwave, John leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes. He felt like he could go to sleep like this, standing up, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. It'd happened a few times during his army days and once or twice when he and Sherlock had been on a particularly long and exhausting case. He just needed to stay awake long enough to eat…the shower could wait until in the morning. Just stay awake….a little while longer…

John jerked back when a pair of warm, soft lips pressed against his own and his eyes snapped open to find Sherlock staring at him from inches away, smiling slightly at John's surprised expression before his lips moved slowly against John's again. John steadied himself by grasping Sherlock's hips and let the taller man press against him, deepening the kiss, his hand cupping John's cheek and tilting his head. Sherlock kept the kiss slow and lazy and much too brief for John's liking. It seemed only a few seconds before Sherlock was pulling back and then tugging John away from the cabinets, keeping their fingers twined together as he led him up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Without a word, Sherlock left John standing at the door and quickly moved to turn down his covers and switch on the bedside lamp. John watched him with a disbelieving smile on his face which quickly morphed to one of desire as Sherlock reached for him and pulled his shirt free from his trousers, his nimble fingers moving efficiently over the buttons.

By the time the last button popped free, John was feeling much more awake than he had been downstairs and Sherlock, of course, noticed this. He smirked before sealing their lips together and pushing John's shirt from his shoulders, running his hands along the exposed flesh before very gently raking his nails down John's back.

John couldn't stop the small moan escaping his throat. He'd _missed_ this. Granted, it had only been a few days since Sherlock's affection embargo but he'd been teased rather mercilessly by his infuriatingly handsome boyfriend.

Said infuriatingly handsome boyfriend thankfully wasn't in the teasing mood and John soon found himself pushed back against the bed clad only in his pants, watching avidly as Sherlock casually tossed his own clothing to the side before swarming over John and kissing him for all he was worth.

They rolled together, grasping and grinding, but Sherlock seemed to have a plan and forcefully pushed John back against the bed, speaking for the first time since John had come home.

"Don't move."

John nodded, leaving his hands above his head where Sherlock had left them, and watched as his boyfriend gave him a scorching look before beginning a very leisurely trip down John's chest and stomach with his tongue.

"What- what are you doing?" John asked as his muscles jerked each time Sherlock licked him.

Sherlock's response was a lick a long stripe from one hip to the other, making John gasp and arch helplessly, his fingers digging into the sheets.

"Sherlock…" he cleared his throat and tried again, feeling that he had to let Sherlock know this. "You don't ha-have to-"

"I want to."

"Ok."

Sherlock grinned and was reaching for John's pants, ready to tug them down, John held his breath, anticipation making the moment stretch out- when his stomach suddenly let out the loudest grumble he'd ever heard.

Sherlock's startled eyes flew up to John's and John blushed, letting his head crash back against his pillow, the glorious moment of excitement broken. Of course _now_ would be the time his hunger would have to make itself known, in the loudest and most obnoxious way possible.

"Sorry. _Fuck_- sorry."

"I didn't realize you were hungry."

"It's fine. It's just been a long day- I had to skip lunch. I'll get something after-"

"I'll get it." Sherlock suddenly said, quickly kissing John and sliding off the bed.

"You don't have to. Sherlock-"

"I want to. I'll be back." Sherlock, naked save for his pants, padded quickly to the door and disappeared down the stairs.

By the time he returned with the overheated casserole, John was already asleep.

* * *

**Well, Sherlock tried to do something sweet. :) **


	17. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

The first thought Sherlock had was to throw the casserole at John's head.

Hard.

The second thought made him widen his eyes and have a fierce debate with himself over anatomy, physical logistics, and the grey moral rightness of doing such a thing before deciding John may think it was entirely inappropriate-despite being obviously pleasurable- and get mad.

The third through eighth thoughts that managed to filter through his squashed pride and hurt feelings noticed the way John looked exhausted, how he practically melted onto the bed, how he'd been sluggish to respond even while snogging, and the deep lines around his eyes he always got when he was tired. He was already deeply asleep, and even the enticement of oral sex hadn't been enough to keep him awake despite Sherlock's knowing John wanted it. Badly.

Suddenly, throwing the casserole as hard as he could at his boyfriend didn't seem so appealing.

Emotions were so annoying.

Sherlock covered his sleeping boyfriend up before sliding into bed with him. He wasn't tired in the slightest but he'd denied himself physicality with John for the past few days and, though he wouldn't admit it, he'd missed it. He wanted the closeness. He still kept to his side, not wanting to disturb John-

John, humming sleepily, rolled over and snuggled against him and Sherlock most emphatically _did not_ smile at the feeling and he _did not_ wrap his arm around John and pull him closer.

He didn't.

* * *

John fisted the sheets and threw his head back as Sherlock slowly and purposefully bobbed his head, enveloping John in slick, hot heat, sucking so hard it felt as if he were trying to pull his soul from his body.

"Not…_ah_! Not so ha-_ard_!" John's hips bucked before Sherlock gentled his ministrations and John looked down the length of his body to stare at his boyfriend, who gazed back at him, eyes dark and sparkling with wicked pleasure at having John totally at his mercy. "Fuck." John let his head crash back down and stared blankly at the ceiling as Sherlock chuckled around him, the vibrations making him shudder in pleasure.

He'd woken an hour earlier to Sherlock wrapped around him as if he were a life preserver on a storm-tossed sea, almost suffocating in curly brown hair. He'd shifted minutely, becoming aware of Sherlock's hot breaths puffing into the bend of his neck, his entire body uncomfortably slick and sweaty from too much shared heat cocooned in their nest of blankets. Kicking off the covers had felt sinfully wonderful, bringing a much needed rush of cool air over John's body- but also, unfortunately waking Sherlock, who'd protested by wriggling closer to John and slinging a leg over his hips, not caring that he was roasting his boyfriend.

"When are you leaving for work?" he'd asked, voice deep and scratchy from sleep and carefully emotionless but John could hear the petulance beneath it. He'd smiled and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, scratching at his scalp and feeling Sherlock got just a little boneless against him.

"I'm off today."

An uninterested hum had been Sherlock's only response, but John had felt him stiffen briefly, his lanky arms pulling him closer, and he laughed, kissing his childish boyfriend on the forehead, much to said childish boyfriend's apparent annoyance.

_Somehow_, John had been convinced to forego a shower and make breakfast for both of them and _somehow_ he'd also been convinced to bring it back to the bedroom. He was still trying to decide how Sherlock had managed to make him do this when he came back to the room to find Sherlock naked, barely covered with a sheet, and laying back indolently, busily typing away at his mobile.

"Don't bother to help." John had griped as he set the tray down and Sherlock hadn't even glanced up from his phone.

"You're doing fine. Did you bring my tea?"

"Yeah, I did you lazy git."

They'd worked their way through the simple breakfast, John telling Sherlock about his first day between bites and even though Sherlock pretended to be bored and uninterested, he kept track of everything John was saying. A decision was soon made- without telling John- that he needed to visit the hospital covertly and observe John's co-workers- one of whom seemed entirely _too friendly_- but for the most part, their little breakfast passed off without a hitch.

Until Sherlock went suspiciously quiet and asked from which carton John had poured his juice.

This led to a very heated row, which then somehow led to heated kisses and mild intentions became meaningful goals, and John had been pushed onto his back with Sherlock straddling him, moving down his body with purpose, smirking at John's wide eyed, entirely hopeful stare.

Which was how John had ended up here, hands burrowed in Sherlock's hair as his boyfriend gave him a very inexperienced and all-the-hotter for it blowjob first thing in the morning.

He closed his eyes, feeling the slick warmth of Sherlock's mouth, the brief swirl of tongue, pants of air on his stomach as Sherlock breathed, the slight pain of Sherlock's nails digging into his hips to keep him still-

He jumped at the shrill ringing of Sherlock's mobile and groaned in defeat, body slumping onto the bed, reluctantly letting his hands fall from Sherlock's hair, knowing where this was probably headed. He looked down at Sherlock, preparing for him to pull away and scramble for his mobile, forgetting all about him and rushing away for whatever case this was about. His erection throbbed at the idea and John hoped he'd have time for a quick wank in the shower first.

"Answer that." Sherlock commanded, briefly pulling off John with a slick pop before going back down.

"Wh-_what_?"

Sherlock, already occupied, didn't respond and John, disbelieving, fumbled in the sheets for Sherlock's ringing mobile, flicking at the screen with shaky fingers and bringing it up to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"John? It's Greg. Where's Sherlock?"

Sucking my cock. "He's…he's…busy, right now, Greg. What do you need?" John could hear the strain in his voice and so could Greg apparently.

"Are you ok?" He sounded concerned, not suspicious, thank god.

John stared down at Sherlock and met his wickedly amused eyes. He was enjoying this. Even as John watched, Sherlock pulled away and ran his tongue teasingly allllll the way up John's length, lapping at the head before wrapping his lips around it and slooooowly sinking back down, never breaking eye contact. John's mouth fell open at the sensation.

"John-?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, Greg, I'm fine. You just…um…called when I was sleeping."

John watched Sherlock roll his eyes and wanted to tell him it was hard to come up with an excuse when he was almost balls deep in Sherlock's mouth and his orgasm felt as if it were about to hit him like a punch in the stomach.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to call at a bad time but I need Sherlock to come in. Can you tell him?"

"Yeah." John jerked the phone away from his ear as he gasped then bit his lip as hard as he could to keep from moaning when Sherlock added his hands into the equation, wrapping one around John's base and moving it in tandem to his mouth. Sherlock's eyes laughed up at him and John knew the bastard was doing this on purpose. He wanted to kill him and he promised himself that he would…after.

When John put the phone back he just caught the tail end of what Greg was saying.

"…know all about that. I mean, what _about_ the _dog_? It's not special. Look, we need Sherlock on this one. We can't find the guy anywhere and it's-"

"Yeah, Greg I'll tell him." Please shut up so I can get off the phone, John thought desperately as Greg started talking about the case again and Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and gave a very enthusiastic suck.

"Oh, _fuck_!"

"John….are you ok?"

"Yeah. Shit, sorry, Greg…just um…Sherlock's new experiment. Caught me by surprise."

"Would you consider this an experiment, John?" Sherlock murmured before going back down and John was almost certain he was going to die. No, he wasn't going to die- he was about to come while on the phone with Greg and why the hell was that idea getting him off almost as fast as Sherlock's mouth was? John didn't have time to contemplate it though because Greg was back to talking and Sherlock, knowing John was close, began speeding up his movements. John watched with bated breath.

"- the guy said he was being set up but anyone can see that wasn't the case. His _niece_ says that he-"

Sherlock moaned quietly and slipped his free hand down between his legs to tug at his own erection. John gasped, hips bucking up and he stared unabashedly.

"Yeah, I know. Not like I was born yesterday. I don't know how she expected me to buy that story but I guess she thinks if she flirts with someone they'll give her what she wants-"

Sherlock moaned again, the vibrations sending sparks shooting from John's cock up his spine, and he felt his orgasm building, his muscles contracting. He was so close, so fucking close-

Sherlock, his hand moving at his own cock, suddenly tensed and came, moaning and gasping around John's cock and John lost it.

"I'll tell him about the case, Greghe'llcallyourightback." John stabbed desperately at the End Call button and tossed the phone to the side. "Oh, fuck, Sherlock- yes, oh, _God_!" John's hips thrust uncontrollably as he came, breaking eye contact with Sherlock and shoving his back into the pillows, clenching his eyes closed, loud, agonized moans ripping from his throat.

Sherlock pulled away and spat as delicately as he could onto the sheets while John wasn't looking, then wiped his mouth before reaching over John's body for his mobile, glancing at the screen and smirking.

"Greg. Sherlock. We'll be there in thirty minutes. Text me the address"

He grinned at John's wide-eyed, absolutely horrified stare as he ended the call with a very embarrassed Greg Lestrade, tossing the phone casually to the side.

"Joining me in the shower?"

* * *

**Sherlock doesn't stay sweet for long, does he?**


	18. Watching A Movie

John had been in a play once. It had been a requirement for one of his classes years ago when he was still in school. He'd forgotten the name of the play but it had been something dreadfully gloomy with lots of overblown emotions and a kissing scene that made the girls giggle and all the boys envious that they weren't the one who got to kiss the female lead- who had been _gorgeous_. Her name had been Laura and John remembered her, which probably explained why he couldn't remember the actual name of the play itself. He'd spent a lot of his time standing around staring at Laura, admiring her chocolate brown eyes, vivacious smiles, and shining, curly hair. She hadn't even realized John Watson existed but one of John's clearest memories of those endless rehearsals was when Laura had once looked over at him and _smiled_. Steady there, young man.

For the most part, he and his mates had pissed around during rehearsals. They'd flirted with the girls (and gotten nowhere because John had always been, well…short), gotten yelled at by their teacher, and forgotten to properly learn their lines. By opening night, as all the parents sat themselves down in the little theater, John came to the stunning realization that he was expected to walk out on stage and say something and he hadn't a clue what that something was.

Twenty years later, he remembers the horrific, gut-clenching, choking, I'm-going-to-throw-up-right-_now_ feeling of taking the stage and delivering those lines he'd hastily read backstage in a desperate bid to memorize them (it hadn't worked). His voice quavering, hands shaking, and knees knocking (because John wasn't always the suave, confident doctor he is today) John had stared out at the blurred sea of faces and sworn to himself that if he made it through this, he would never ever again be in a sodding play.

He'd made it though, flubbing his way through the few lines he had, and hadn't impressed Laura even slightly. The entire experience had been a dismal failure, but, despite his promise to himself, over the years John became used to being the center of attention, having everyone's eyes turned to him in expectation of a performance. For the sake of time, we won't delve into the _other_ times John put on a performance but he didn't earn the nickname Three Continents Watson by using his medical degree. Suffice it to say, he had ample opportunity during his lifetime to make a production of things, and he had, time and again, and he'd gotten good at giving a performance. Damn good.

Now, standing beside Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back as his boyfriend silently moved about the accused murderer's flat, gathering evidence on where he could possibly be hiding, John Watson once again had an audience, and they were eagerly waiting for his performance.

There were a few officers scattered around, waiting for Sherlock's miraculous deductions so they could arrest the criminal, as well as Lestrade and Donovan, and everyone, every single damn one of them, were staring at John and Sherlock as if they were waiting for the show to start.

Their eyes flicked from John to Sherlock, then back to John before pretending they weren't staring and looked elsewhere….but their eyes invariably were drawn back to the couple and the route began again. John, Sherlock, John, eyes sailed away, John, Sherlock, John, look away.

John, gritting his teeth, wondered what the hell they were waiting for? Did they think he couldn't control his urges around Sherlock now because they were shagging? That he'd regressed to a caveman mentality and if they just waited and looked at them long enough, he'd throw Sherlock to the floor and have at him? The idea made his lips twitch and he cleared his throat before he started giggling at how horrified everyone would be if he did just that.

He wondered if anyone would take pictures.

John managed to cover up his hysterical giggle as a cough but Sherlock gave him a searching look and John saw him fight back a smile too. Sherlock obviously knew they were being watched and John was certain he'd devise something shocking to do about it.

He looked over in time to see Sherlock wink at him- John blinked in surprise- before the consulting detective transferred his attention back to the flat again. It was sparse with little furniture, dull colors, and almost no personal articles to be seen anywhere. It had an almost unlived-in feel and John couldn't see anything that would give them a clue as to where the man had hidden himself after supposedly murdering his brother. Sherlock, though, had gone through everything- checking the bins, inspecting the moldy contents of the fridge, wriggling himself under the man's bed, and even shutting himself inside the loo and crawling into the ceiling to check the vents. If there _were_ any information to discover, Sherlock would find it.

"All right, Sherlock? Anything?" Greg finally asked, leaning against the hideously green wallpaper and studying his notepad in an obvious attempt to avoid looking at John and Sherlock. He hadn't made eye contact since they'd arrived and, after his accidental performance over the phone, John couldn't meet the DI's eyes either. He wasn't ashamed but…there were some things one bloke never needed to know about another and knowing how he sounded while coming in his boyfriend's mouth was top of the list.

Right after how he sounded coming with his boyfriend's dick up his arse.

At that rogue thought, John blushed, barked out a surprised laugh, and whirled around, covering his mouth with his hand and frantically trying to will away the insatiable laughter and get control of himself. He was usually the one lecturing Sherlock on appropriate crime scene behavior, not the other way round.

"You all right?" Greg sounded concerned, and he paused in staring fixedly at his notes to look over at John. Then he caught Sherlock's eye, who smirked knowingly, and Greg flushed dark red and looked back down.

"Yeah, it's just…." John couldn't think of a single excuse. His voice was trembling in an effort not to laugh, don't laugh, keep it together, Watson, for fuck's sake _don't laugh_, which only made the urge worse. He cleared his throat before turning around. "Fine."

"If you're finished." Sherlock murmured and John nodded, schooling his face into serious lines. They were here to investigate a murder, after all.

"Your murderer could be anywhere." Sherlock began. "He's not a man of habit-"

"So you can't find him?"

They looked over at the sound of Donovan's voice and John bristled but Sherlock ignored her, for once, and focused back on Greg.

"_But_ he does have a few peculiarities and I know exactly where to find him."

"Where?"

"We're going to the theater."

* * *

"You know, we've never been on a date."

Sherlock glanced at John then went back to observing the people queuing around them at the surprisingly busy movie theater, trying to pick out their murderer. Finally, he saw him, almost twenty people ahead of them in the line and in the process of purchasing his ticket. Sherlock eyed the screen displaying the movies and times and sighed impatiently, tapping his foot.

"We go out all the time."

"It's not the same thing. I don't think crime scenes would be considered a date, Sherlock. Not a proper one, like most couples go on."

"_Most_ couples are dull and have a distinct lack of imagination. Ours is a novel, thrilling relationship, John. Who else would be going on a date to catch a murderer?"

"This isn't a _date_, Sherlock, this is a _case_." John shook his head. "Don't you…you know, want to go on dates? With me, I mean?"

"Is going on dates a requirement to being boyfriends?"

John shrugged. The fact that he and Sherlock hadn't gone on a date yet had honestly just occurred to him. He was so used to always being with Sherlock, living together, working together, that the fact they hadn't had a romantic date had…slipped his mind. He felt like a bad boyfriend just thinking about it. By this point- literally weeks into their relationship- he would have already taken one of his past girlfriends on multiple dates, showered her with flowers, pulled out all the romantic stops- candles, dinner, dancing. The most romantic thing he'd done for Sherlock had been tend his burns and turn a blind eye to the buttocks in the freezer.

"It's not a requirement but…it might be nice."

"And where would we go?"

John heard the sarcasm that was apparent in Sherlock's voice but wasn't going to be deterred. Not on this. Sherlock, for all his mockery and sneering attitude, was just as human as everyone else. He'd seen how delighted he was- and still got- when they were referred to as a couple and it was only logical he would want to go on a date, no matter how much he ridiculed it. John, berating himself, thought he should have realized this sooner.

"I'll think of something." He said, hoping he sounded mysterious because he honestly had no idea where he could take Sherlock that the other man wouldn't find boring. Dinner and a show wasn't going to cut it for the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"As long as this sudden zeal for a date doesn't interfere with The Work." Sherlock sounded extremely skeptical, which just reinforced John's desire to impress him and, if possible, sweep him off his overlarge feet.

John looked away, thinking, and Sherlock took the opportunity to glance at him, wondering what a date with John would entail. He usually took his girlfriends to the standard dinner-and-a-movie or walks in the park or, on one occasion, a play. It all sounded so incredibly uninteresting but…maybe he could suffer through a _few_ evenings for John- if that was what he wanted. He just hoped John didn't choose a truly horrible action movie like those he watched at the flat. It was dismal enough suffering through them when he had a laptop or experiments to distract himself but in a theater, packed in on all sides with people, Sherlock wouldn't be able to hide his boredom and that would disappoint John and ruin their date. He found that, surprisingly, he didn't want to ruin any future dates with John. He actually…wanted to go on one, even if it turned out to be boring.

As he watched the murderer stroll casually into the theater, Sherlock stored these thoughts away for later examination and directed his thoughts back to the case.

They purchased their tickets, rather adding to the fact this could be considered a date since Sherlock paid for them both, and he held John's hand as they walked through the crowd down the appropriate hallway. John looked startled by the affectionate display, but pleased, and Sherlock congratulated himself on doing something right. John could deny this was a date all he wanted, but it certainly seemed like it was to Sherlock.

By the time they slipped into the correct auditorium, the lights were already down but the movie wasn't playing yet. John stared at the preview of some movie depicting fast cars racing each other down darkened streets, their engines revving, flames blazing from the tailpipes, and then, after performing incredible jumps, exploding as bikini clad girls writhed in the background, all to a blasting rap soundtrack. He glanced around, realizing Sherlock had already left him and was climbing the stairs to the seats further up. John hurried to catch up and Sherlock stood aside to let him into the row first before sliding into the seat beside him.

"What's the plan?" John hissed, settling into his seat and carefully scanning the moviegoers for their mark.

"We may be in for a long wait." Sherlock whispered, nodding to where the man was sitting a few rows down from them and John stared at him.

"Can't we just go now- text Lestrade-"

"He's armed and desperate. Best wait until he leaves. We'll keep eyes on him until he's out of the crowd."

John sighed unhappily and stared down at the man.

"Stop staring."

"_You're_ staring."

"We can't _both_ stare." Sherlock hissed back. "Watch the movie."

John huffed and stared obediently at the screen, on edge, waiting for the man to make a move, get up and leave, do something but he remained seated and it seemed he was really here to watch a sappy romantic comedy.

Sherlock had explained his logic on the ride over but John still didn't understand how he'd known the man would be at _this_ movie, on this _particular_ day, at this _exact_ showing. Apparently, he'd deduce the man was a huge fan of the lead actress, but between murdering his brother, convincing his niece he was innocent, and stealing money from his girlfriend, he hadn't had a chance to watch the show. Once again, John was left lost, but he was sure Sherlock would fill him in later so he could get all the facts right for his blog. Sherlock did hate when John got things wrong.

He settled into his seat as the minutes dragged by and the man didn't seem inclined to move. John could feel Sherlock getting restless beside him and smiled. The movie was atrocious, even from John's point of view, and he didn't know which was worse- the acting or the storyline, but it could be the un-believability that these two people would ever want each other. The woman was whiny and the man weak and, with their criminal doing nothing distracting, John started mentally planning a potential date for Sherlock, running through a very short list in his head.

It was halfway through the movie, as the couple onscreen kissed to a swell of dramatic music, that John felt his skin prickle in awareness. He turned in slow motion to find Sherlock staring at him, his head facing forward but eyes trained to the side, watching him watch the movie.

"What?"

Sherlock leaned over, angled his head to the side, and kissed John heatedly in the darkness of the theater. John hadn't expected it, not while they were keeping track of a murderer, but he wasn't about to pull away. He instinctively tried to move closer and bumped into the armrest, almost laughing because it was such an adolescent thing to do, snogging one's boyfriend in the movie theater while the lights were out. Sherlock's tongue brushed against John's lips and he parted them, shuddering in sudden desire when he felt Sherlock move into his mouth, his own tongue sliding wetly against John's and making heat shoot down his spine.

He cupped Sherlock's cheek, kissing him back, giving as good as he got, and felt Sherlock try to press closer, feeling more than hearing his growl of frustration when he too met the barrier of the armrest. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's already open but staring down and away, keeping track of their murderer, but his kisses didn't show his distraction. He sucked John's lower lip between his own, tugging at it with his teeth, and John closed his own eyes, letting himself relax into the kiss and letting Sherlock deal with the case for a few minutes. Sherlock broke away and sucked wet kisses along John's jawline, then trailed his lips down John's neck before attaching himself, very firmly, to his pulse point and biting down. Hard.

John hissed and fisted his hands in Sherlock's coat, trying and failing to drag him closer. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and dragged him back up to seal their lips together again, leveraging himself up in his seat to deepen the kiss.

"He's leaving." Sherlock breathed the words into John's mouth and abruptly pulled away. He stood and began stealthily making his way down the aisle, leaving John frozen for long seconds as he tried to make his mind catch up with what was going on.

The case.

Murderer.

Going after him.

John got to his feet, still a bit wobbly, and followed Sherlock.

* * *

An hour later, they were back at Baker Street, the criminal in custody and Greg once again unable to meet John's eye when he saw the spectacular love bite on his neck that could have only come from a certain smug consulting detective. Sherlock was lounging all over John's still form on the sofa, his head resting under John's chin, arms wrapped around and under the smaller compact form, squeezing gently. Their legs were twisted together, bodies pressed close and Sherlock sighed, a deep, satisfied sigh.

John chuckled at the indolence of the other man as he trailed his fingers down Sherlock's spine.

"What?" the detective questioned a hint of petulance in his tone as though he were afraid he were being laughed at.

"Nothing, Sherlock. But you really are a cuddle slut, aren't you?" John laughed, giving voice to a thought he'd had for a while now, and he felt Sherlock stiffen and start to pull away, embarrassed, now knowing he was being mocked for the attention he craved from John.

John, though, was quick and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, twined their legs together and effectively pinned the taller man to him. Sherlock huffed angrily and kept himself rigid against him.

"Let me go since I am obviously bothering you."

"I didn't mean it that way, Sherlock. I like you…being all over me." John purposefully discarded words like "cuddle," "snuggle," and "nuzzle" because he didn't feel like being kneed in a sensitive area for revenge. "It's great being so close to you. I…I love it."

Sherlock glared at him for a few moments before softening and slowly sinking back down, relaxing against John and re-wrapping himself around the shorter man.

John smiled and continued running his fingers along Sherlock's sides and back, making the taller man squirm every once in a while.

"Would you still not consider today a date, John?" he asked, his voice deep and lazy.  
"Mmm, no, I wouldn't."

Sherlock snorted. "I don't understand why not. It met all the general criteria of a typical date. We attended a movie, I paid for both our tickets, we held hands, watched the film, and snogged for most of it, then had dinner afterwards before returning home. It was therefore a date."

John was silent as he digested this, not really able to find fault in Sherlock's logic but still disagreeing. "That still doesn't make it a date." He protested.

"Why?"

"It just…doesn't. We both have to agree it's a date before it's an _actual_ date."

"That's ridiculous."

John shrugged. "So are those buttocks in the fridge but you don't hear me complaining about it."

* * *

**Terribly sorry this chapter has taken so long. First I sprained my ankle, then I became absorbed in E3 coverage, and one thing led to another and...my writing suffered. Nevertheless, here we are again! Thanks for the support!**

**The last section of this chapter was half-written by the fabulous MapleleafCameo. We were talking about Sherlock loving to cuddle with John and she coined the delicious phrase of Sherlock being a "cuddle slut." Naturally, I had to use it. She gifted to me a few paragraphs because she is just, wow. Thanks!**


	19. Cosplaying

John's "unhealthy date obsession" (as Sherlock persisted in referring to it), was regrettably delayed when John was laid low by a nasty stomach virus.

He'd picked it up at the hospital after being vomited on in a spectacular manner reminiscent of horror movie demon possessions. He'd washed and disinfected himself but 24 hours later, John was slumped over the toilet, chucking up what felt like every organ in his body. He had a fever, felt chilled, skin achy to the touch, and there was a rumbling in his stomach that didn't bode well for later. He only hoped he managed to get rid of Sherlock before _that_ happened.

"Can't you prescribe yourself something?"

John glanced behind him to where Sherlock stood in the doorway to the loo, a safe distance from John and watching awkwardly as his boyfriend expelled the meager contents of his stomach.

An overwhelming wave of nausea forced John to turn away and he retched into the bowl again before he was able to answer Sherlock's question.

"It's just a 48 hour virus." His voice was wobbly and scratchy after vomiting so much, he hadn't had a shower yet, and he felt like hell. And he _really_ just wanted Sherlock to go away so he could be miserable in peace and not worry about how he looked all sweaty and vomiting.

He'd never worried about things like that before they started dating but now it was a top priority. Hell, they'd seen each other sick, injured, covered in refuse, mud, fertilizer, and in all sorts of awkward and embarrassing positions. John figured Sherlock could deduce it every time he had a wank, probably every time he took a piss, but he could ignore it and pretend Sherlock couldn't because Sherlock, wisely, didn't bring it up. It was different then versus now, though. _Now_ they were together and nothing killed someone's sex drive more than knowing how one's lover looked knelt over a toilet, gagging and moaning in agony. John was vain enough to really not want Sherlock to see him like this.

Not only that, but he wanted to be sick alone, without someone hovering over him. He could take care of himself.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, voice laced with doubt. "Why was the boy responsible for this in hospital then if it's just a 48 hour virus?"

"He was dehydrated and smaller. Body couldn't handle it as well."

Sherlock shifted uneasily. "Do you want some water?"

"No. God….no." The idea of drinking anything, even water, made John's stomach rebel and he leaned over as he regurgitated the rest of his breakfast, stoically suppressing a whimper as his throat burned afterwards. He flushed and slumped against the tub, resting his face against the cool porcelain and breathing deeply.

Sherlock was quiet as he watched his boyfriend look miserable for a few minutes but he finally couldn't contain himself any longer.

"This wouldn't have happened if you weren't working at that _hospital_." He declared contemptuously.

"Fuck off, Sherlock." John snapped weakly, voice too shaky to invest much venom behind the insult.

"It's true. You can't argue with facts, John. You always bring home sicknesses- first from the surgery, now the hospital. You never get sick working with me-"

"No, I just get bashed over the head, stabbed, half-drowned and end up in A&E." John groused, rolling his head around to look at Sherlock with bleary eyes. "Sherlock…please…just go away."

"I thought I was helping."

"By what? Arguing with me? No, _helping_ right now would be going away." John's body was wracked with a violent tremor and his teeth chattered in his head. He tried to remember if they had any medicine that would help.

"Don't be ridiculous. You obviously need me…I'll be right here-"

"You'll just get sick too and you're…" John retched and lunged for the toilet again. When it was over, he rested his head against the rim, now officially too miserable to care what Sherlock thought. "You're horrible to take care of." He finished weakly.

Sherlock snorted. "Doctors are notoriously exasperating to take care of when they're sick. You get irritable and cross and yell at me for no reason, all while insisting you don't need any medicine. I remember last year when you had flu-"

John groaned and tried not to listen as Sherlock expounded, in great detail, on how horrible John had been last year. He remembered the time Sherlock was talking about- probably better than Sherlock did, at least in this instance.

It had been the height of flu season and John had worked extra shifts at the surgery because of the influx of sick patients. He'd gotten his flu shot (Sherlock hadn't) like he was supposed to but after days of letting his body get run down by working long hours with little rest and not enough nourishment, after being sneezed and vomited on, getting up close and personal with hundreds of sick people…John had got infected. It was just an occupational hazard of being a doctor, and John had been ready to curl up, take his prescribed medicine, and let the sickness run its course for a few miserable days.

Then Sherlock had gotten sick.

And promptly regressed to being a 3 year old.

Even a year later, John still shuddered at the memory.

"You weren't an angel either." He protested from his position on the floor, pressing his overheated skin against the cool tiles, knowing he shouldn't but really too miserable to care. At least at the moment.

"I was _very ill,_ John! _You_ had got a flu shot and didn't suffer the brunt of the sickness like I did."

And _oh god_, did John remember that argument. It had been the reason Sherlock couldn't be bothered to get up and fetch his own…well, anything. Extra blankets, tea, food, the remote to the TV, his mobile. John had finally got fed up and told him to bugger off, then was treated to the congested wail of "Jawn. Jawn. Jaaawwwn. I neeb by mobile. _Please_, Jawn." Sherlock's wails had grown progressively weaker and pathetic until John finally felt so badly for his flatmate he got up and fetched whatever it was Sherlock had wanted in the first place.

"Well, I'm the only one sick now and I don't want you getting it so please…just leave me alone."

Silence fell. John closed his eyes and tried to will Sherlock to walk away.

"You really don't need me?"

"No. I'll be fine."

He heard Sherlock dither. "This isn't some…boyfriend test, is it? Where I'm supposed to stay even though you tell me to leave?"

John sighed and opened his eyes. "Where the hell did you hear that from?"

"Internet."

"You're not allowed on the internet anymore when I'm not around."

"So it is a test?"

"Why the fuck would I test you?"

"You're in a moment of need and really want me to stay but will tell me to leave, repeatedly and convincingly, thereby testing my commitment to you and my level of caring-"

"_Jesus_, Sherlock, it's not a test. I'm not a sixteen year old girl- I just don't want you seeing me vomit and shit while I'm sick." John snapped, his patience finally eroding the more miserable he felt. He instantly felt bad and looked up to find Sherlock staring at him, looking a little wounded and lost.

"I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm just being a dick 'cause I'm sick. No reason to take it out on you." He offered Sherlock a weak smile. "You said yourself doctors were hard to take care of."

Sherlock snorted and looked away. "You really don't need me?"

"No." John hesitated. "Thanks though."

* * *

If Sherlock were a proper, _normal_ boyfriend, he supposed he probably would've cooked something nice for John, gone to Tesco and bought all his favorite foods and sports drinks so John wouldn't get dehydrated. He would have then stoically stayed by John's side and pampered him with telly and movies and company, whether he said he wanted it or not. He would have looked at John with indulgent smiles, handed him cool flannels to place on his forehead, tutted over him, and kissed him even though he was gross.

Sherlock did none of those things.

Instead, he first visited Mrs. Hudson and cajoled her into making John some soup.

He then shoplifted everything he thought John needed from Tesco, which was much more fun than just purchasing it. After nicking the sports drinks, as well as John's favorite crisps, and a new DVD, Sherlock felt very bulky with everything concealed in his coat and about his person, and took it as a sign that he needed to practice his skills more often. John had prohibited him from shoplifting but as long as John never found out, Sherlock was safe.

Besides, one never knew when a skill would come in handy.

Sherlock set it all up in the sitting room, threw blankets and pillows on the sofa, and pulled and prodded a hateful, cursing, shivering John from the loo and pushed him down in the nest he'd made.

"There's juice and more sports drinks in the fridge." Sherlock stated, handing John a blue drink. "I'm going out. Text me if you need anything else."

Sherlock was poised to leave when John stopped him at the door.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

John glanced at the blankets, then back up to Sherlock, smiling crookedly. "Thanks. You're a good boyfriend."

Sherlock tried and failed to suppress his delighted grin as he left.

* * *

John called in to work and dozed off and on throughout the day. He made multiple trips to the loo and cautiously drank the brightly colored liquids with his medicine so he wouldn't get dehydrated. He then ran back to the loo when those wouldn't stay down, flopping miserably back onto the sofa when he was done, calculating whether or not the medicine had had enough time to enter his system before he expelled it. He was pathetically grateful Sherlock had left him alone, something Mrs. Hudson thought was atrocious when she came to see him later that evening, bringing a sickening and repellent smell of soup into the flat with her.

"You need to eat, dear, and keep your strength up." She said cheerfully, ladling her soup into a bowl. John's stomach twisted and he looked away, burrowing his nose into his blankets so the smell wouldn't make him throw up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don't think I can, though."

John's protests were waved aside and he tried not to snap at the well-meaning landlady, hearing Sherlock hissing in his head that doctors were the worst people to care for.

After he was done throwing up the few bites of soup Mrs. Hudson had forced him to eat, John tried to explain that Sherlock was doing him a favor, that he _wanted_ to be alone and at the same time kindly hint that her visit would be appreciated if she cut it short…but she ended up staying, trying to cheer him up and clucking over him needlessly.

John felt mean at how relieved he was when she _finally_ left, telling him to call her if he needed anything.

"And I'll give Sherlock a piece of my mind, next time I see him. That young man should be taking care of you."

* * *

It was well past midnight when Sherlock returned to find John buried under the blankets, the flickering telly the only light in the flat. He stored his latest acquisition in the fridge then checked to make sure John was covered appropriately and that he still had all the necessary supplies on hand. Satisfied everything was in order to speed John's recovery, Sherlock crept down the hall to his bedroom.

He spent the next hour tossing and turning on his previously luxuriously comfortable mattress, unable to sleep or relax. He huffed and glared up at his bedroom ceiling. He hadn't slept in his own room in weeks, ever since the night John had sleepily invited him up Sherlock shared John's bed with him. He didn't always sleep, needing very few hours of rest, but John didn't mind if Sherlock sat beside him in the dark and thought, or used his laptop, just so long as he let John sleep.

Of course, with Sherlock occupying his bed, John didn't always _want_ to sleep.

The thought of what they substituted in lieu of sleeping most nights made Sherlock bite his lip and he was out of his room and up the stairs in seconds, making sure to tread carefully so as not to wake John.

What he then did in John's bed was nowhere close to sleeping.

The sleeping came afterwards.

* * *

The next morning, when John woke, it was to an empty flat and he wondered where Sherlock was, and if he'd been back to the flat since the previous day. He still felt like shit and stumbled into the kitchen for something to drink and take the disgusting taste from his mouth.

Which he quickly realized had been a mistake as he slammed the door shut on the fresh container of livers and raced to the loo, his stomach protesting at the grotesqueness.

By the time he was done, John was too weak to even send Sherlock an angry text on why now was not an appropriate time to have disgusting things in the fridge and collapsed back on the sofa.

He took medicine and drifted for a while, unable to sleep because of his fever, and kicked his covers away when he got too hot, sprawling out akimbo on the sofa, wondering how Sherlock always looked so elegant when he did this but knowing he himself probably looked like a fleshy, pale starfish.

And speaking of Sherlock….

At first, John thought what he was seeing was the result of a fever dream.

Why else would Sherlock be so blue? All over? And so…naked?

John amended that thought when he saw the brown leggings Sherlock was wearing as he quickly crossed the room and opened his laptop, typing quickly and frowning at whatever it was he found. Those leggings. John turned over to look at them properly. They hugged Sherlock's arse and thighs and, when he turned, displaying his front, left nothing to the imagination.

It was a testament to how horrible John felt that he didn't even feel a beat of arousal. Nothing. If he could have done anything though, in that moment, he would have made appreciative grabby hands.

John blinked and wondered how the hell high his fever was. He should probably try and take some more medicine.

But first things first.

"Sherlock….what're you doing?"

"Sorry, John, I didn't mean to disturb you but I needed to check something. Go back to sleep. It's just for a quick case."

"Why're you blue?"

"I'm a Na'vi."

"From Avatar?"

"Yes." Sherlock bent over to type, giving John a great view of his arse. John hummed appreciatively and Sherlock glanced back, raising a newly grown in eyebrow. "See something you like?"

"Mm. I thought you hated that movie."

"I do. I'm Cosplaying."

John thought about asking why, felt too bad, and decided not to. Instead, he stared at Sherlock, deciding blue was a good color on him, noting how well he'd painted himself like a Na'vi, the way he'd slicked his hair back from his face…

"You need a tail."

"What?" Sherlock frowned as he turned back to John. He gazed at him for a few seconds then stalked down the hall, returning shortly with a glass of water and pills. "Take these."

John obediently took the medicine and lay back down. "You're supposed to have a tail. You look good with a tail." John smirked and wondered if Sherlock was blushing under all that blue paint.

"I'll look into it." Sherlock paused. "Do you need anything?"

John shook his head and Sherlock dropped a quick kiss to his forehead- John protesting he was going to get sick- and left.

John idly wondered if Sherlock had even put his coat on or was going blue and bare-chested through the streets of London- and having fun imagining that- when he drifted off to sleep again.

* * *

The next time he woke, it was dark. All the lights in the flat were off and he lay there for a few minutes, assessing how he felt. Surprisingly well, considering he'd just spent almost the last 2 days being sick. He was weak and felt disgusting, but that was nothing a shower and a good meal couldn't cure.

John levered himself off the sofa, letting his head spin after being laid down for so long, and started walking to the loo with the intention of taking a steaming shower, when he heard a tremulous voice call out to him.

"John?"

Pushing open the loo door, John sighed in resignation when he saw Sherlock slumped over the toilet, still elaborately dressed as a Na'vi, still sadly without a tail, and apparently very sick.

"I knew you'd get sick, love." John said gently, wetting a flannel and putting it on the back of Sherlock's neck as his boyfriend vomited again. "Did you at least solve the case?"

Sherlock nodded weakly and John felt pity well up as he watched Sherlock's body shake with his fever as his long, blue fingers clutched the sides of the toilet.

"Come on. Let's get that paint off, take some medicine, and get you into bed."

"Don't want to." Came the petulant, shaky reply from the consulting three year old and John sighed again, knowing he had his work cut out for him.

* * *

**This story has over 300 followers. Wow. Just wow. Thanks everyone. :)**


	20. Crossdressing

**Well, this chapter took a lot of reserach and a great, supportive village. Many thanks go to BookFinder for the invaluable help of discussing drag looks for Sherlock with me, Johnsarmylady for answering my questions about the correct UK names of things (if I've still gotten them wrong it's my own fault), and Banbi-V for the proofread.**

**Please know that in no way, shape, or form is it my intent to offend anyone. This chapter was written for the goal of entertainment and pleasure, not to offend and I have done my level best to keep everything aboveboard. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

John had barely closed the front door when Sherlock's voice shouted down at him from above.

"John! Be ready to leave in five minutes!"

"Hello to you too." John muttered but grinned as he jogged up the stairs, a coil of excitement winding itself tight in his chest. It had been almost a full week since they'd been out on a case and a bored Sherlock who was still pouting that John hadn't taken more time off work to care for him "in his hour of need" was decidedly unpleasant. Added to that was Sherlock's belief that John's job was solely responsible for his sickness and tensions in the flat had soared to dangerous levels. They both needed a case to rejuvenate and distract themselves.

"Right, then, where are…we….going?" John stopped short in the door to the sitting room, his jaw dropping, and stared at what he _thought_ was his boyfriend seated at their desk, tapping away at his laptop.

"Sashay. Gay club. Make sure to wear something nice. Your dark blue button down and dark jeans will do."

Disregarding the fashion advice, John stood rooted to the floor and opened and closed his mouth, his eyes traveling up and down Sherlock's body, questions and expletives exploding in his mind simultaneously, making it hard to think or put an organized sentence together.

"What…the hell?" John finally managed to strangle out and Sherlock glanced over, his mouth curving into an amused smile before he stood and turned to fully face John.

"What do you think?" He asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively and spreading his arms to give John an unrestricted view of his body.

"What are you _wearing_?" John asked, even though the question wasn't necessary. It was obvious _what_ Sherlock was wearing. The better question was _why_ he was wearing it.

Fake eyelashes dramatically framed Sherlock's eyes, thick and black and long enough to sweep the edges of his cheekbones with every blink. Delicate black and white makeup had been applied around each of his eyes, which enhanced the beautiful green orbs so they appeared larger and glittered in amusement as he watched John stare at him. A smattering of miniscule but brilliant white jewels swept in graceful arches from his cheeks to forehead, further accentuating his eyes and throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief.

It wasn't Sherlock's face that would draw attention, though.

John didn't think what Sherlock was wearing merited the conservative description of "dress."

The barely-there, too-short, long-sleeved sheath of absolutely sheer white, glittery mesh covered almost nothing of Sherlock's body and only the strategically placed, sparkly white and gold gems scattered like stars across the night sky made an effort at covering him up. Even then, the patina of glitter and jewels was see-through and left undeniably nothing to the imagination.

Nothing.

"Did you shave?"

"Wax."

"And your legs?"

"Of course."

"Right."

John, staring at Sherlock's smooth crotch from beneath lowered brows, realized something he should have done before.

"Um…Sherlock, where's your…" John motioned vaguely at Sherlock's crotch and they both looked down where, through the mesh and a sunburst of jewels, there was something notably absent.

"No worries, John." Sherlock smirked. "It's still there. I've tucked."

"You've _what_?"

"Tucked. Common practice amongst cross-dressers." Seeing John's shocked, bewildered face, Sherlock rolled his eyes and amended his statement. "It's where one pushes the testicles up into the inguinal canal from which they've descended, wraps the now empty scrotum around the penis, then pulls the penis back between one's legs to create the illusion of having a smooth pubis. The general practice is to secure the tuck with a gaff but I used duct tape. Much more reliant, less visible, and won't slip."

"Are you telling me you've wrapped your cock up in _duct tape_?"

"Not entirely accurate but I suppose it's a valid description, yes."

John was mystified. "_Why_?"

"A case, obviously. Lestrade phoned this morning with it. He should have brought me in four weeks ago but he seemed to think he could solve it." Sherlock snorted derisively and sat back down at his laptop, making John wince.

"Doesn't that hurt?" John asked, not able to imagine how it would feel to have his cock shoved back between his legs and then sat on. It sounded painful in the extreme but Sherlock looked perplexed before he understood what John was talking about.

"_Oh_! The tuck. A bit uncomfortable but nothing unendurable. It'll probably only be a few hours until we solve this case and I can untuck."

John snorted and couldn't stop himself from laughing. The situation was just so entirely bizarre- this was the most extreme thing Sherlock had ever done for a case.

"Right. And you don't think that's not going to be painful to remove?"

"I'll simply soak in a warm bath for a while until the tape loosens. Really, John, some men do this all the time. I'm hardly the first to try it."

Sherlock turned back to his laptop, his brow furrowing in thought, and John continued to stare at his boyfriend. He couldn't help but feel awkward and uncomfortable with Sherlock dressed like that. It was still _Sherlock_, of course, but…_different_…and John found that he didn't like it. Sure, he'd had the stray fantasy every once in a while, wondering what Sherlock could look like in heels, his long legs made even longer and more elegant. But now, faced with the white, gladiator-style heels Sherlock was wearing, he decided he didn't like it.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, jolting John out of his thoughts and standing up, closing the lid of his computer.

"What?"

"_How do I look_?" Sherlock smirked, turning around for John to get the full benefit of an entire afternoon's effort. The "dress" continued to be sheer round the back and only a smattering of glitter and jewels kept John from seeing the entirety of Sherlock's arse.

He clenched his jaw and willed away the gruff, caveman-like voice in his head that was shouting there was no way in _hell_ Sherlock was going out of the flat dressed like that.

"Fine. Yeah, fine, you look…fine." John mumbled, not willing to lie because he knew he'd get caught out anyway and Sherlock did, he supposed.

Look fine, that is. Good, even, considering he was a man dressed in drag. It was just not really what John was keen on. He liked Sherlock masculine, with hair in the correct places and no makeup on his face.

"You, um, did your make-up really well. I like your…." John gestured aimlessly at Sherlock's face, floundering for the correct word. "Glittery things."

John thought he saw a bit of hurt flash across Sherlock's face before it was quickly hidden as he turned away.

"Hurry and get dressed. We need to get there shortly after the club opens."

"Ok, hang on. Where are we going and why are you dressed like this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I've already told you. It's for a case, Sashay, and it's half an hour away. I'll explain everything in the cab."

* * *

"So these murders…you think it's someone at the club?"

"It would have to be. Not a regular who goes every night, otherwise he'd be recognized, but someone who shows up once a week, never enough for people to remember his face but often enough that he knows the layout of the club and how to get his victims away without being seen by the cameras. He only attends when the crowds are the largest which would lessen the chances of anyone remembering him and also his being detected when he makes his move."

"And this is the only way to catch him? You…tarting yourself up?"

Sherlock spared John a droll look in the back of the cab. "From the files Lestrade send over today our man has a type-"

"And you just happen to fit that type."

"Yes."

John sighed, a long, gusty sigh and leaned his head back. "So your genius plan is to get dressed up, pretend to be an easy shag, and do everything possible to attract the man who drugs his victims before he murders them and dumps their bodies in bins?"

"Succinct breakdown, John."

"And has it crossed your mind how many ways this could go wrong? Hmm?"

"Spare me your misplaced concern. I can take care of myself. Besides, you'll be there and will intervene when he tries to take me away."

"Wait- _are you actually planning on letting him drug you_?"

"Well he'd have to drug me, wouldn't he? Otherwise how will we know we've got the right man?"

John sat in stunned silence.

"Relax. Based on his predilection for taller men I'd say the man we're looking for is tall himself. Probably not overly handsome but good looking enough to attract his victims before drugging them. He'll be wearing something understated, muted colors. No flashy drag for our suspect." Sherlock threw John a fake sunny smile and John finally found his voice.

"Sherlock- _no_. There's no way I'm letting you go in there on some half-cocked scheme to attract a killer and get drugged in the process-"

"Do you have a better way of finding the suspect?"

"Better than tucking my penis between my legs and letting a murderer drug me? I'm sure I could think of something." John snarked back and Sherlock, giving him a furious glare, ordered the cab driver to pull over.

He chivvied John out before climbing back in and slamming the door.

"You're not going without me-" John started angrily but Sherlock cut him off.

"Of course not but we have to arrive separately." He explained, his voice snapping in irritation. "Otherwise everyone will think we're together and our suspect will never make his move."

John bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that they _were_ together. Sherlock's entire plan and the way he was dressed for it set John's teeth on edge and aroused every possessive instinct he'd ever had. It also aroused a tremendous amount of jealousy and possessiveness he _hadn't_ know he had.

"Why do _you_ get the cab?"

"_Please_, John. Have you seen these heels? I refuse to walk two blocks in them. You'll be fine and by the time you reach the club I'll be on the dance floor." Sherlock grinned cheekily up at John and winked. "Feel free to dance with me if you want."

* * *

"Buy you a drink, handsome?"

John started and whipped around at the sound of the silky voice directly in his ear. He came face to face with a man a few inches taller than him who was smiling in a decidedly flirty way. In the darkness of the club, John couldn't make out many of his features, but his dark blonde hair was short and spiked and he wore a plain white button down. John watched the man's eyes flick down his body then back up to his face.

"Umm." John edged away from the man as far as he could, which wasn't very much. It was a Saturday night and Sashay was _packed_ with people, most of them on the dance floor, grinding away to the pulsing music John could feel deep in his chest. "No, thanks." John shouted above the music and tried to smile to take the sting out of his rejection and then wished he hadn't when the man, undeterred, pouted prettily, invading his space again and brushing his body against John's. It wasn't the first time John had been flirted with that night, but this man was proving much more insistent than the others.

John's attempt to edge away again was met with resistance from the tight press of bodies near the bar and someone shoved him roughly when he trod on their foot, sending him closer to the flirty man. John uncrossed his arms in the small space he had left in case the man in front of him tried anything.

"Are you sure? You're _so_ hot." The man shouted back and John watched him lick his lips as his eyes did another flick downwards. "I'm Jessi, by the way. With an "I."

Jessi-with-an-I extended his hand and, because John couldn't think of a reason why not to, he took it, pumping it quickly then trying to drop it. Jessi, though, was reluctant to relinquish John's hand and John was finally forced to wrench it away from him, laughing awkwardly and not sure why he was laughing except he was embarrassed.

"Let me buy you a drink." Jessi wheedled, smiling flirtatiously and nudging against John. "You could use a drink- you look so tense. Is this your first time here?"

"Uhh, yeah, no, I've never really been here before." John shouted back, glancing around the darkened room, the flashing lights, and, as the crowd parted, spotted Sherlock on the dance floor. He'd been watching Sherlock dance with a string of partners for the last hour, most of them copping a feel through Sherlock's nonexistent dress and being laughed at and teased by his "easy for the evening" boyfriend. John had moved past the point of jealous.

He was so furious his hands were shaking.

He was so mesmerized watching Sherlock dance, feeling reluctant arousal at the sight of the gorgeous man and the way he moved his body so easily to the music, he didn't notice Jessi moving closer until they were pressed tightly together.

"Wanna dance?" His lips brushed against John's ear and John involuntarily shuddered from the feeling.

"No, really, no thanks. I'm not interested."

"Well, if you're not interested at least let me buy you a drink. My night won't be a total waste if I buy a hot babe a drink." Jessi winked at John's astonished face and shoved their way to the bar. John didn't think he'd ever been called a "hot babe" before and was still reeling when Jessi asked what he wanted to drink.

Reluctant but deciding he'd look odd standing around in the club without something in his hand to drink if he weren't dancing, John ordered a rum and coke and made sure to take the glass directly from the bartender, not trusting Jessi, who was hanging all over him, not to slip something in it. He and Sherlock were here to investigate a string of murders after all.

"Put it on my tab, Seth." Jessi called out to the bartender before John could protest.

"You're so pretty. And pocket-sized!" Jessi shouted at John over the music, accepting his drink and watching as John sipped his own. Resisting the urge to punch Jessi-with-an-I over the insult, John looked away, his eyes sifting through the dancers for another sign of Sherlock. Finally, he found him, being grinded on by a man wearing ass-less chaps and a smile. He tamped down on the surge of jealous possessiveness that rose up sharply and looked away. It was just for a case.

"So, are you into the drag scene?"

"Mm."

"I bet you look great in heels. You're so toned. What's your type?"

"What?"

Jessi was eager to explain the entire scene to John and actually ended up being rather fun to talk to, all things considered. He seemed to take the point John wasn't going home with him but stayed by John's side and nattered on, pointing out the best cross dressers in the room and talking about different shows he'd been to and how his friends had dressed for them while John kept an eye on Sherlock.

"- and she had this beautiful arrangement of pink feathers on her bum and wiggled them- the crowd went _wild_-"

John blinked, trying to clear his suddenly blurred vision. The lights were starting to strobe in odd patterns, making his eyes water and sting. His head felt thick, sluggish, and the music had changed beats, becoming weird and fuzzy. John frowned, knowing something was wrong. He hadn't had anything strong to drink- nothing that would be having these effects-

"Of course, I don't think anyone could top Miss Lizzie. She's gorgeous- sort of reminds you of that bloke in the nearly nude- Hey, are you ok?"

The room suddenly dipped and spun and John found himself in Jessi's arms, being carried backwards into a shadowy room.

* * *

Sherlock was getting thoroughly fed up with being grinded on.

He had danced with half the men at Sashay but he was starting to think his suspect hadn't bothered to show up tonight. He'd been so sure, though. The man was methodical. He had hit the club every Saturday for the past four weeks. He was here, he had to be- Sherlock knew it.

The man currently dancing with him was getting entirely _too friendly_ and Sherlock smacked his hands away from his arse and laughed like it was all a big joke. Inwardly, he wanted to break the man's fingers.

He was sure John would rather dismember the man piece by piece.

It was almost worth it, all the acting and feeling random strangers pressing against him, to feel John's eyes, dark and angry, staring at him all night. It sent an odd thrill up his spine and made heat settle low in his stomach. Sherlock wasn't all that surprised he was an exhibitionist, it made sense, and he wondered how John would reassert his possession of him once they were back at the flat. It was enough to make Sherlock more than eager to wrap this case up so they could leave.

Instinctively, Sherlock looked around for John but he wasn't where he had been.

It was half an hour later that Sherlock, a low level panic starting in, realized he couldn't find John anywhere.


	21. Crossdressing Part 2

He had miscalculated.

The insidious, hateful knowledge of his own failure beat wildly in Sherlock's mind, leaving him irritated and jittery as he tried and failed to find John in the shadowy interior of Sashay. The panicked tension in his chest drew tighter and tighter as he indiscriminately pushed and shoved people, hurrying to the front entrance and retrieving his mobile from his Belstaff in the coatroom.

No missed calls, no text messages letting him know where John had gone.

Sherlock dialed John's number, holding his breath.

It went straight to voicemail.

"This is John Watson, I'm not available…."

Sherlock ended the call and tried again, knowing it was futile, before giving up and dialing Lestrade. If John were able to answer his mobile, he would. The only problem was, he couldn't- the killer had made sure to leave John's mobile behind, just as he had done with his other victim's, and Sherlock knew they would find John's mobile in one of the bins dotting the club, or in the skip out back. Just as he had done with the other ones.

He closed his eyes, trying to plan his next move over the riot in his mind that kept repeating the same phrase, over and over:

He had miscalculated. This was his fault. If John were raped then killed, it was his fault.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock, so lost in his own thoughts, jumped when Lestrade came on the line, his voice scratchy and uneven.

He didn't pause to apologize for waking the DI well after 2 am. "Lestrade. I need you at Sashay, _immediately_. I was undercover-"

"Christ. You went after him _yourself, _didn't you? _Jesus_, Sherlock, I told you to _wait_-"

"He has John."

The line went silent as Lestrade absorbed that. "No, he wouldn't. John's not his type-"

"I _know_ that. He's deviated."

And if he had John, which he did, then the killer had deviated in a major way. After examining the evidence Lestrade had sent over, Sherlock had easily seen a pattern to the murders. Their killer enjoyed targeting cross dressers, not bang-up, shoddy jobs but the pretty ones, the flashier cross dressers who could have easily passed for women on the streets and most definitely in the darkness of the club. The victims had been tall, willowy, beautiful men, well-dressed in very revealing costumes and elaborate make-up. Sherlock had known, once he was appropriately dressed, he would be the ideal victim for the man.

He had miscalculated.

Because at some point in the evening, Sherlock had made himself _too_ available, _too_ flashy, just a bit _too much_ everything for a sensible killer- and their killer _was_ sensible and very clever not to have got caught- to target. He had made a spectacle of himself, dancing provocatively, allowing everyone to paw at him, drunk with the glowering attention John had been giving him, and had gravely miscalculated.

If the situation were not so dire, Sherlock would have been mortified at his actions. That, however, would come later.

Now, he had to find John.

"They never do that." Lestrade protested, sounding more awake, and Sherlock could hear him struggling into his clothes. "They never deviate so wildly-"

"Well, this one _has_! What does it matter?" Sherlock shouted, anger at Lestrade's lack of response grating on his already fraying nerves. He knew he needed to calm down. This wasn't him. Being upset would only hinder his search for John, not help it. "I _know_ he has John."

"Ok, I'll just- what?" Sherlock heard a sleepy murmur from Lestrade's end asking what was wrong and he was too distressed to even be appropriately disgusted that Mycroft was with the DI. He latched onto his brother.

"Put Mycroft on-"

"Sherlock. Where are you?" Something in Mycroft's calm, unworried voice steadied Sherlock and he took a deep breath, feeling himself settle somewhat.

"Sashay. It's a club-"

"I know it. We'll be there in ten minutes. In the meantime, talk to the manager and secure the video footage."

It was a mark of how grim the situation was that Sherlock didn't argue, didn't even _want_ to argue with his brother. Instead, he ended the call, wrapped his coat around himself, and did as his brother had asked.

* * *

John's eyelids felt as if they weighed a ton and he struggled pointlessly to open them. His body lurched to the side without his permission and he frowned. It felt as if he were floating, but that couldn't be right. He tried again to open his eyes but they were just too heavy and, because he couldn't think of a reason not to, he gave up and drifted into a blissful unconsciousness again.

* * *

"We found his mobile in the skip out back, sir. We'll analyze it for fingerprints-"

"You won't find any. He's too clever." Sherlock snapped, irritated at doing nothing, being forced into inaction but there was nothing to be done. The video footage had been, as Sherlock expected, completely unhelpful. It hadn't helped with the other murders and it wouldn't help with John. With no face, fingerprints, a name, the barest hint of a mark in the grit behind the club…there was nothing to be done. There had been no leads on the case, which had been why Sherlock had thought his plan was so genius. Except it hadn't been.

He had miscalculated.

John had been missing for almost an hour. He could already be dead.

Sherlock paced, shooting his brother anxious glances as he talked quickly but calmly on his mobile, conferring with his own people. This left Sherlock and Lestrade to deal with the ensuing officers on scene.

Sally Donovan allowed her eyes to travel insolently from Sherlock's "fuck me" heels to his spangled face and arched an eyebrow. "This how you get your kicks on the weekend, freak?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, his temper precarious at the best of times but lethal in this instance, but before he could unleash his acrimony, Mycroft abruptly ended his call.

"No time to explain. Let's go."

* * *

John gasped into alertness as his back jarringly hit a cold, hard surface and the pain and surprise provided enough impetus to help his eyes flare open. He blinked dazedly in the semi-darkness, trying to figure out where he was and what he was laying on but his vision was too fuzzy and everything kept dipping and swaying, splitting into multiples, swimming in and out of focus.

John groaned, closing his eyes, and faintly heard someone chuckle above him.

* * *

"We have CCTV footage of him loading John's body into the back of his car and driving away. We were able to track him to an all-night motel a few blocks from the club. I sent people there immediately. They will call me when they arrive."

There was silence in the car as the three men sped through the darkened streets in Lestrade's car, digesting this information, drawing conclusions without anything explicitly being said.

Mycroft glanced in the backseat where Sherlock was primed, ready to leap from the vehicle the moment they arrived, and almost ordered him to stay where he was. Not that Sherlock would ever listen to a direct order from him, but John had been with the killer for more than an hour and Mycroft knew that was more than was enough time for a practiced serial killer to inflict whatever damage they wanted and be long gone.

It was enough time to rape and kill John, heavily drugged and therefore unable to fight back, thirty times over.

And he didn't want to see his brother's face if and when they found the body.

In the end, though, Mycroft kept silent. It was best to save his argumentative strength for the After, not the Before.

* * *

He felt so…sleepy. It was nice, drifting along, pleasant, and John hummed happily, trying to shift into a more comfortable position….only to realize he was laying on hard concrete, his back aching from the earlier impact.

And he couldn't move.

Panic made him thrash, his lungs constricting as fear swamped him when he realized none of his limbs would respond. He couldn't feel anything tying him down. Instead, it seemed there was a disconnect between his brain and his arms and legs. He tried again.

Nothing was happening.

He couldn't move.

He gasped in restricted breaths, wondering why his chest felt heavy, too heavy for him to breathe properly. He tried peeling his eyes open but again, his body didn't respond to anything he wanted it to do.

Panic was thick at the back at his throat, choking, and he moaned before feeling the warm hand caress his cheek, soothingly.

"Calm down, love. I won't hurt you."

John turned his head at the words, blindly trying to find who was speaking, vague recognition nagging at his doped brain.

The gentle hand continued down his cheek, his neck, and across his chest, scratching over his nipples and making them pebble in the cool air. His stomach jolted when he realized his chest was naked and his attempt to buck up, throw off his attacker, didn't compute to his pliant body and he was powerless as he lay beneath the man.

"You really are lovely. Not really my type but…everyone needs a bit of rough now and then."

John heard the man hum appreciatively and start working at the laces of his shoes.

* * *

The ringing of Mycroft's mobile was loud in the silence of the car, and Lestrade jumped, his eyes flicking over nervously as Mycroft smoothly answered it.

"Yes."

Sherlock swallowed, his jaw clenched tight, and stared at the back of Mycroft's head as the police lights strobed over it, straining his ears to catch any of the conversation on the other end.

"Yes. Yes….The normal procedures….Expedite it….You know how to act." He ended the call. "They found him, alive, and he is currently being transported to the local hospital."

"Fuck." Lestrade whispered, the curse sounding more like a benediction than an explicative and he slumped in his seat. "Really? He's alive?"

"Yes."

"And the killer?"

"He was present and has been appropriately detained."

"So I'm assuming this will be strictly _your_ case from here on out?"

"You would be correct, Gregory."

Sherlock, digesting the information, suddenly felt wobbly and he leaned back in the seat, his heart feeling as if it were skipping beats. He wondered if this were what having a panic attack was like. He decided he didn't like it and resolved to never feel such a way again.

Lestrade seemed to feel the same way if his shaking hands were any indication as they skittered slightly on the wheel and he rubbed at his face, taking in deep lungful's of air. Finally, he gave voice to what both he and Sherlock were wondering, one of them too scared to ask. "Was John…?"

"He seems to be unharmed and unmolested, fine, as far as my people could ascertain. He is being transported to hospital due to an abnormally low heart rate and he is of course exhibiting all the classic symptoms of ingesting what is commonly referred to as a "date rape" drug. We will have to analyze his blood to know for certain what he was given."

Lestrade frowned at that. "Wouldn't John have seen something?" He asked, incredulous. "He knew they were looking for a killer, he would've been on alert-"

"Unless it wasn't the killer who drugged the drink." Mycroft responded quietly, shifting so he could glance into the backseat where his brother was being unnaturally quiet. Sherlock, expressionless, was huddled in his coat, staring blankly out as London whipped past them. "John would have been appropriately wary, knowing the method the killer used to trap his victims. While it was unaccountably foolish of him to accept a drink while he and Sherlock were on a case, he would have been on his guard. He would not have trusted some strange man buying him a drink."

"The bartender." Lestrade muttered, shaking his head. "They were working together."

"It seems the most likely option. I have dispatched people to the club to detain him as well."

* * *

When John came to, he blinked at the bright overhead lights that were attempting to blind him and wondered where the fuck he was.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling waking up not knowing where you were, and in a body that was achy and apparently staging a rebellion if his head were any indication.

John groaned and rubbed his forehead, trying to knead out the pain with no luck. His head, pounding in uneven rhythm and doing its best to split open, felt like the morning after a night out with the lads but…that wasn't right. Was it? And if that's what had in fact happened, it must've been one hell of a night because he had no fucking clue where he was or how he'd got there.

Drawing in a shaky breath, John squinted his eyes and glanced around the room.

Hospital.

He'd been in enough of them over the years to recognize the typical bland room when he saw it but…why was he in hospital?

Frowning at both the pain in his head and in an effort to dredge up a memory of what had happened, John levered himself up on his elbows and hissed as his back immediately started protesting. It felt like he had one massive bruise and he ever, ever so carefully raised himself further up by increments, his head starting up a faster pulsing of pain at the change in position, until he was sitting on his own, breathing heavily.

"Oooohhhh, fuuuccckk." He moaned, dropping his head into one hand and reaching back with the other to try and feel the extent of the damage. All he encountered was smooth skin, no sign of a cut or lump but the angry throbbing told a different story. "Bloody fucking _god damn_."

"John?"

John carefully raised his head at the sound of the soft voice. Sherlock stood at the edge of his bed, face inscrutable as he stared at him and John offered him a weak smile before grimacing.

"Why am I in hospital?"

"What do you remember?"

Answer a question with a bloody question, John thought, twisting his mouth into an unhappy moue, not in the mood to play Sherlock's game. "Uhh…I don't know. _Fuck_, my head feels like it's about to explode." He narrowed his eyes. "What did you do? The flat still better be in one piece when I get back."

Sherlock sighed and moved around the edge of the bed to sit. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"Um…I came back to the flat after work. You…said we were going somewhere? Something about a case…you were dressed in drag for it…" John cast a questioning look at Sherlock's coat but it was reservedly buttoned up, offering no hint of scanty attire beneath. He worried his lip between his teeth as he tried to think, but the entire night seemed blurry and surreal, and he finally shook his head. "That's all I remember."

"The cab ride?"

"No."

"The case?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock nodded. "We were investigating a series of murders that had taken place over the last few weeks. Someone drugged and abducted cross dressers from a gay club, Sashay, then raped and killed them leaving the bodies for the police to find. Tonight, our killer, instead of targeting me as was the plan, made off with you instead."

"How?"

"GHB."

"I was roofied?"

"That would be Rohypnol, different drug, similar effects. This was Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid. It would explain your slowed heart rate, as well as your nausea, loss of consciousness. It's also why you probably feel as though you're hung over." Sherlock paused, didn't meet John's eyes. "Do you remember anything about the actual incident?"

John, his stomach dropping unpleasantly, not liking how Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes, didn't. He wet his lips and mutely shook his head.

Sherlock nodded. "Another side effect of GHB. Memory loss. You wouldn't remember anything. Lestrade will still want a statement, of course."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"Sherlock."

The younger man looked at John, finally meeting his eyes, and easily deduced the question in their worried depths.

"Nothing happened. We arrived before he carried out his intended sexual assault."

Something in John's chest loosened and he breathed in relief. His head was still pounding but was starting to lessen and he eased himself back down on the bed, wincing when his back finally made contact with the mattress.

"Fuck. Ok, then what happened to my back?"

"I believe you were dropped onto a concrete floor with nothing to cushion the impact."

"Mm. That explains why it feels like that then." John joked feebly, but Sherlock didn't laugh, hitching his coat closer around him instead.

"You'll be released as soon as a doctor comes-"

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"You are telling the truth…aren't you? About what happened?" John was frowning, taking in Sherlock's tense posture, his unwillingness to actually look _at_ John, the way he shifted and fidgeted- so unlike him. Something was wrong and John couldn't figure out what. As Sherlock always liked to say, he needed more data.

"Of course I'm telling you the truth, John, don't be ridiculous." And Sherlock was telling the truth. But he wasn't going to tell John just how close of a thing it had been. It had been close enough that when Mycroft had finally told him (after hours of badgering. The elder Holmes didn't want to reveal much of anything about the case to him) he'd been horrified.

Acquiescing, John closed his eyes to rest his head from the lights but a thought occurred to him. Lips twitching, he glanced over at Sherlock.

"Are you still in drag?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked upward weakly and he stood before dramatically flashing John, who barked out a quick laugh.

"I see you're, uh, back." He said, gesturing to Sherlock's cock and balls, which were explicitly on display in the transparent dress. "Was it painful?"

"Rather." Sherlock replied, covering back up and resuming his seat. "Ideally, I would have taken a warm bath which would have loosened the tape but…I was forced to simply remove it."

John winced in sympathy but couldn't stop the amused chuckle from escaping. Sherlock, however, didn't join in, instead sitting straighter, tight lipped, but John chalked it up to him being stroppy and nursing his injured pride and let it go.

For the time being.

* * *

Looking back, John realized he should have known then that something serious was wrong with his brooding, melodramatic boyfriend.

They'd had close calls in the past, both of them getting into more scrapes and impossible situations than was healthy or advisable. John was fairly certain they had set some sort of record if anyone were keeping track of such things. They'd been abducted a ridiculously staggering amount of times, and between them there were almost 100 stitches, 2 head bashings, 13 broken bones, 4 strangulations, and one massive, occasionally bruised, ego.

Sherlock was always able to laugh about it with John after the fact, though. They'd get stitched up, take the prescribed pain medication, then go have dinner (twice with Sherlock on crutches and once with John being stoically but unhappily wheeled in a chair) and laugh at their lucky escape, chide each other on mistakes made or share congratulations on stellar deductions made at just the right moment to ensure they both survived and the culprit was captured.

That was normal and happened after every case. Since they'd gotten together, the exhilarating time after successful cases included kisses and sex and John inadvertently making Sherlock blush. It was fun and lighthearted, the calm after the storm, and it was _theirs_.

This time, Sherlock didn't laugh. There were no jokes and when John tried to take his hand on the cab ride back to the flat when he was finally released from hospital, Sherlock moved away and refused to answer what was wrong. When they arrived at the flat, he ran up the stairs ahead of John and had already closed and locked his bedroom door by the time John entered.

* * *

"I don't think this is a good idea."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who had finally, after two days, emerged from his bedroom. John had tried everything coerce him into coming out- speaking calmly through the door, shouting, pleading, calls, texts, but had finally just let him be, knowing he'd be out when he was ready and not a moment before. This was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with, after all.

He took in Sherlock's pale, set expression, knew what this conversation would be about, and went back to making his sandwich.

"What's that?"

"Us, being together."

John didn't pause in his important sandwich preparation but he did glance once more at Sherlock's cold, emotionless face.

"What makes you think that?"

"You make me lose focus. I cannot afford distractions while I work or things like that will happen."

"_That_ being me hurt, which isn't anything new. We've had close calls in the past, Sherlock." John reminded him gently. "It's going to keep happening whether or not we're in a relationship-"

"It doesn't matter! I don't want to be distracted and you are a distraction."

John's lips quirked up in a humorless smile as he turned to Sherlock. "I've been wondering how long this would take you."

"What?"

"To turn into an even bigger idiot than you were."

Sherlock frowned and felt anger flare before John sighed and scrubbed at his face, as if trying to rub away the conversation they were about to have.

"Look. I don't know everything that happened with this case. You won't tell me and I know you've told Greg to keep it from me. It's annoying but I trust you enough that if something bad happened, you'd tell me. But I know it's shaken you."

"Shaken?" Sherlock scoffed, voice laden with scorn and John winced but didn't look away. "I made a mistake and almost got you killed."

"I know. But it's not the first time I've been in that position." John said again, looking at Sherlock with tired, resigned eyes and Sherlock found his heart fluttering nervously at that expression, not liking to see it on John's face. "And I promise you, no matter how hard you try, no matter how smart or clever you are, you're only human, and I'm only human, and it won't be the last time."

"I can prevent it-"

"By pushing me away?"

"_Yes_. You distract me-"

"Maybe." John shook his head. "But I don't think that's what this is about."

Sherlock blinked. "What else would it be about? I hated making a mistake, John."

"I know you did." John replied simply. "But it's more than that. I've talked to Greg about what happened- what he's actually _allowed_ to tell me- and I think I know what it was. You were scared."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, feeling the panic of that night trying to crawl its way back into his chest again. Scared seemed like such a pale description for the terror he'd felt as he'd ridden in Lestrade's car to what he had been convinced would be John's murder scene. John, correctly interpreting his silence, sighed.

"You were scared because you love me. And you should know that I love you, too."

It was the first time John had said the words. It had been implied, in the wonderful, scorching kisses and light, comforting touches John so freely gave and that Sherlock had grown used to, blissfully accepting, but it had never before been given voice.

Now that it had, it seemed to fill the entire flat, bouncing off the walls and stalling Sherlock's thoughts. It was simple and yet elegant and entirely John. _"You should know that I love you, too."_

"I know how you felt when you thought I was in danger. I've…I've felt that way about you for ages, before we started this, before we even kissed. I understand how it feels. It's not pleasant- hell, it's fucking terrifying, the worst thing I've ever felt- but it's not going to go away because you break up with me. That won't fix it."

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from asking how- how could he fix it? He never wanted to feel that way again, the frightened, out of control feeling that had swamped his rational mind. He didn't want it. He really didn't. He had spent the last two days thinking of and discarding ideas of how to prevent such a thing from ever happening again.

John smiled humorlessly, as if able to read Sherlock's thoughts. "Look…I know you really believe all that 'caring isn't an advantage' and that 'caring about people doesn't help you save them'…but, you love me. Maybe you don't want to, and I get the idea you've probably fought against it for a while but…you still do. We can think of something to make things better, keep you from being distracted and more focused, something that doesn't involve breaking things off." John shrugged. "Unless you really want to break up with me." He added uncomfortably, suddenly vulnerable.

Sherlock snorted and closed the distance between himself and his clever boyfriend, bending down and resting his forehead against John's, palming his hips possessively and smiling when he felt John mimic his stance. "Now who's being an idiot?"

* * *

**This chapter dealt with some darkness so I wanted to continue on from the last OTP prompt and finish this out without trying to force something where it shouldn't be. We'll have a new prompt next update. Promise. **

**A note on date rape drugs- there are many different kinds and most of them can be administered without the intended victim being aware. Please be cautious when out and about and if you think you have been given one of these drugs, or have been raped under the influence of said drugs, please seek medical help. The dangers are real and some of these drugs will only show present in your system for a few hours after, which means the sooner you get tested for them the better.  
**

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	22. Wearing Differing Clothing Styles

"Mmm…I don't think I'll get used to this."

Sherlock squirmed against the warm, rumpled sheets as John brushed his fingers along the smooth skin of his inner thigh, tickling and teasing and maddeningly arousing all at the same time. He felt his cock twitch in response and John's fingers ghosted further up, the lack of hair resulting in Sherlock's skin having no buffer whatsoever against the sensation and the pleasurable feeling traveled straight to his groin, settling, tingling, behind his testicles and throbbing hotly up his cock.

"Hair does have a startlingly tendency to grow back, John." Sherlock responded sarcastically before jumping as John playfully bit his ear and he felt rather than saw John grin in the darkness of his bedroom. It was still early and dark, the sun had yet to rise, and Sherlock had accidentally-on-purpose woken John before his alarm went, just for this.

It had taken Sherlock two mornings in a row of being well and thoroughly ravaged by his doctor (and doing his own ravaging in return) to realize John was particularly randy of a morning. Not that John _only_ enjoyed morning sex (Sherlock had ample proof that John enjoyed sex at all hours of the night _and_ day) but there was something about John during those minutes when he had just woken up, pressed against Sherlock and hard, that seemed indolently decadent and full of pleasurable potential and Sherlock could not help but take advantage.

Besides, it wasn't as if John would ever _complain_ that Sherlock were taking advantage of him. Especially if it were of a sexual nature.

"I know it'll grow back." John's fingers inched higher on his thigh and Sherlock shifted his legs on the bed, flushing slightly with the knowledge he was doing something as wanton as _spreading_ himself for John's fingers. His body flashed hot, wondering if John would understand what he was offering, would move those final few inches and-

John's fingers encircled his erect cock in one hand and gave it a leisurely stroke and Sherlock slumped against the bed in a confusing combination of pleasure and disappointment.

"It's still different." John confessed, tangling their legs together and furrowing his brow at the feeling, or rather, the _lack_ of feeling. Sherlock had expected John to be both excited and happy at his lack of body hair after their last case but honestly, John missed it. He'd _liked_ the scrape of Sherlock's rough hair against his own, the way it had felt beneath his hands as he'd gripped and grinded, the physical proof of masculinity, the undeniable reminder that they were two men. It had been titillating, arousing in a way John hadn't anticipated, and he was counting off the days in his head until that sadly absent hair grew back.

"I think I like this, though," John's warm palm pressed against Sherlock's groin, rubbing the silky smooth skin above his cock, knowing it was in juxtaposition to his earlier claim but too aroused at the moment to bother figuring it out. "It gives me…ideas."

An assenting hum, a tug, a lanky knee accidentally digging painfully into John's thigh, and a breathless curse later, Sherlock lay sprawled atop John, undulating slowly, encouraged by the warm, hissed praises in his ear.

Calloused hands came up to grab his arse and pull him closer and Sherlock angled his head down, sucking a kiss on John's neck, wincing at the stubble that pricked his lips and rasped against his tongue. He repeated the action, cataloguing texture and smell, movement as John bucked beneath him, though neither were in a hurry. That was what Sherlock loved about John's penchant for morning sex: there was no rush. It was warm and soft, leisurely and relaxing, their arousal building so slowly he was able to catalogue every honeyed second of it, wring every last drop of pleasure from every single action he could.

It was glorious.

Afterwards they lay tangled together, breathing evening out, hearts returning to a normal rhythm, and John weakly declaring that one of them should get up and clean themselves off…but neither bothered to move.

It wasn't until John's alarm sounded, jerking them out of their idyll, that they were forced to separate, somewhat stickily. John winced when Sherlock almost _peeled_ himself away from his lover to flop onto his back.

"Urgh." Scrubbing at the dried semen with his own boxers in disgust, John glanced at Sherlock expectantly. "Joining me in the shower?"

Sherlock grunted in the negative and rolled away, not bothered by the dried fluids on his own body, and bundled himself into the blankets to begin his customary sulk, which he did every morning, while John got ready for work.

John cast an amused glance at Sherlock's back, no longer bothered by his petulance, and set about getting ready for the day.

An hour later, John was kissing his sulky, lanky love goodbye. "I love you."

"Yes." Sherlock swiftly replied, not yet able to give voice to such a sentiment but he knew John understood.

John, unperturbed, kissed him again. "What're you doing today? Don't tell me you're just going to lay there pouting."

Sherlock uncurled himself and stretched out long limbs, watching as John raised an eyebrow at his indolent and naked sprawl across the bed. He smiled, a slow Cheshire cat smile, eyes alighting with mischief. "I'm sure I'll find _something_ to do, John."

* * *

Sherlock acquired a long, white coat and clipboard and stalked through the hallways of the hospital. So long as he kept frowning seriously and consulting the paperwork on his clipboard, walking with an assured stride as if he were going somewhere with a definite purpose, no one questioned his presence.

Further proof that everyone, as he was always alleging, were morons.

He caught occasional glimpses of John but deftly managed to avoid any collisions. He wasn't entirely for certain, but felt that John may get rather angry if he saw Sherlock kitted out in a doctor's coat, deducing his colleagues. Sherlock was anxious not to make John angry. An angry John denied him things he wanted, like sex and the Tupperware container full of intestines Molly was keeping for him. So Sherlock kept a sharp eye out for where John was at all times.

Deducing John's colleagues was something Sherlock had meant to do since that first morning John told him about his new job and the "pleasant" people he worked with.

Fate, however, had conspired against him.

Cases had arisen, some interesting and requiring all of his time, John had got sick, then Sherlock, then John was abducted...the list was maddening in it's well-designed prevention of his goal. Now, though, Sherlock had an entire day free to do as he wished and what he wished was to stalk the halls of the busy hospital, lean nonchalantly against pillars, duck behind doors and into closets, and busy himself at the doctor's trollies as he deduced.

Everyone.

By mid-afternoon, he was starting to contemplate giving it up as a bad job.

All and sundry- the doctors, nurses, miscellaneous staff, the patients- were all so very dull and boring. Not worth wasting his time over, not worth the minimal effort it took to deduce them. He felt he was wasting his time.

There had also been an awkward moment when Sherlock was wrangled into meeting a Mr. Carlson in room 114 when no other doctors were immediately available.

The middle aged man, round and balding, hunched over in pain, had assumed right away and without question that the tall, slender man being ushered into his room by an overworked nurse suffering from dehydration and high-stress brought on by her divorce, was his doctor and had started rattling off his symptoms the moment the door closed.

Two minutes later, Sherlock had diagnosed him with fibromyalgia and as having an employee who dipped into the register when he was away from his store (glass ornaments and engravings) for any extended period of time.

Mr. Carlson was still stammering over that last revelation when Sherlock whisked from the room, informed a passing nurse Mr. Carlson was insisting on a second opinion, then made it his mission to keep from a repeat of that fiasco.

Head down, Sherlock was making his way to the exits, having decided to nip to Bart's for his latest acquisition and to perhaps reveal just a _bit_ of what he and John liked to do of a morning in an effort to get the stomachs he _knew_ Molly was holding for someone else….when the sound of high-pitched feminine laughter sounded, loud and out of place in the harried hospital, and he glanced around to locate the source.

He paused, eyes narrowing.

The woman in question (pediatrician, early thirties- short and blonde, cat lover, graduated top of her class at uni, felt threatened that all her friends were already married with children) was laughing up at John, her hand brushing his arm in a familiar gesture- an _overly_ familiar gesture. Her fingers caressed John's forearm, curling around and squeezing as she laughed, releasing with a slow, deliberate drag of her fingers. John didn't seem affected by it, brushed it aside, but he was smiling happily down at the woman and said something else, sending the woman into another fit of laughter.

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he watched them interact. They were obviously well-acquainted with each other, friendliness surpassing that of colleagues or passing acquaintances. Direct, prolonged eye contact, arms brushed easily with no awkwardness or pulling back with apologies, comfortable with each other, speaking of an intimacy that went further….

Morstan, Sherlock remembered. The female doctor's name was Morstan. John had mentioned her once. He had met her before going to Afghanistan, when she was still a student and studying to be a pediatrician, and they had dated briefly before John left. John hadn't elaborated on their relationship and he and Sherlock had got distracted with a row before Sherlock could ask more questions.

Now, watching Morstan smile up at John, her head cocked to the side, fluttering her eyelashes in an obvious display of attraction, Sherlock had a lot of questions. The knowledge John had dated her sat like a lead weight in his stomach and it was suddenly harder to breathe in the overly warm hospital as John grinned at her, shaking his notes and gesturing to a room across the way from which the overly-dramatic screams of a tantrum could be heard.

Sherlock watched Morstan's eyes follow John as he walked away and disappeared into the room, mercifully shutting the door so the screams died down somewhat.

Morstan accepted some paperwork from one of the nurses, wrinkling her nose, and started to her next patient, not noticing the tall, dark-haired pseudo-doctor following behind.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock jumped at the low, furious voice and the tight grip on his arm forced him to spin around, sending him stumbling slightly into the wall as he came face to face with an angry Doctor Watson.

His mind stalled for the briefest of seconds-

"It's for a c-"

"If you say it's for a case, so help me God-" John broke off and released Sherlock, forcing a smile as a few nurses walked past, giving John and Sherlock suspicious looks.

John's nostrils flared as he seethed, eyes like two blue ice chips as he glared at Sherlock.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't understand why you're so upset, John. I-"

"Don't understand why I'm upset? You could get me fired, Sherlock. _Again_. Is that what you're trying to do?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course not."

"Then why? No, wait." John grabbed Sherlock's arm again and tugged him further down the hall into an empty examination room. He closed the door and locked it behind them. "Why are you here?" His voice rose now they were alone and Sherlock thought it was somehow far worse than his angry whispers in the hall.

"I…" Sherlock floundered in the face of John's ire, surprisingly unable to formulate a single excuse. "I…wanted to see your co-workers for myself after you told me about them. Make sure they were safe for you to be around."

"Safe?" John asked suspiciously, crossing his arms, obviously not buying Sherlock's line.

"Yes." Sherlock felt the indignation of being accused of lying, choosing to overlook the fact he was. John didn't know that- he couldn't know that.

"Right. _And_?"

"And what?"

"_And_ what did you find out about them that I didn't tell you?"

Sherlock hesitated, not trusting the suddenly pleasant tone of John's voice. He knew John was still angry- thinned lips, tightness around his eyes, rigid posture. He frowned and John sighed, deflating in front of him, shoulders slumping, arms uncrossing.

"Do you not trust me?" The question was low, almost so quiet Sherlock didn't hear it, but he did and snorted, rolling his eyes at the dramatic accusation.

"Don't ask ridiculous questions, John." Sherlock scoffed.

"It's not ridiculous, Sherlock. You show up at my job and skulk around the whole day-"

"It wasn't the _whole day_-"

"Spying on my co-workers, deducing them, comparing what I told you to what you find out yourself, apparently trying to find me out-"

"You left _important details_ out-"

"Then I find you following Mary-"Sherlock's eyes sharpened at the usage of her first name- "all around the floor like some stalker, so tell me. What am I supposed to _deduce_ from that? Hm?"

Sherlock stuck out his chin and refused to be bullied.

John shifted his stance and refused to back down.

It was quiet in the small room, the tension almost palpable.

"What were you looking for, Sherlock? What? Evidence we were shagging?"

Sherlock looked away because no, he hadn't really thought they were shagging. Besides the fact that Sherlock would have been able to tell if John _were_ having an affair, John was much too noble to do anything like that. Sherlock, however, was too proud to say that he'd felt…insecure. And jealous. All from seeing John smile at some woman he worked with and just happened to have a history with.

He abruptly felt very small and foolish and didn't like the feeling at all. His bravado was gone, mortification was swiftly overtaking any remaining feelings of pride and he couldn't even look John in the face.

"I do trust you." Sherlock winced. Even his voice sounded chagrined.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Sherlock heard John sigh, the soft click of his shoes as he walked over, then John's face ducked into his line of sight, smiling slightly.

"You'd make a hell of a jealous boyfriend. As if I could hide anything like that from you."

"John, don't-" Sherlock started, his insides twisting unpleasantly at John's teasing. He didn't want to be reminded that he had foolish failings just like everyone else. He was supposed to be above that, _should_ be above that.

"If you're going to stalk my co-workers because you're jealous you can bet I'm going to be taking the piss." John grinned, raising his head, nudging their foreheads together and Sherlock let out a stuttery sigh, realizing he was about to get off the hook with this one. "And we're at hospital. My name is Doctor Watson."

Shocked green eyes collided with amused blue ones and John laughed at Sherlock's reaction.

"And the next time I see you at this hospital, it'd better be because you're horny and looking for me to shag."

* * *

**Well, it's been 3 weeks since I updated this story, and all I can plead is joining two different fandoms in the interim which demanded my time and feels. Any Cabin Pressure and Supernatural fans out there who will understand? :)**

**And yes, this was "different clothing styles." Sherlock was dressed as a doctor which I think you will find does count.**


	23. Shopping

It was comfortable and quiet in the darkened flat. The curtains gently fluttered as a sultry breeze floated through the open window, bringing with it the sounds of the city, busy and full of aimless purpose on a Saturday night. The sounds of Mrs. Hudson humming could be heard from downstairs as she got ready for a date (something Sherlock was strongly opposed to) and the occasional careless laugh as people walked beneath their building, their enthusiasm over the promises the night had to offer them almost tangible.

Inside the flat, John blithely typed away at his blog, updating their latest case involving midgets and 100 stolen cases of brandy, responding to comments, enjoying a cup of tea, and vaguely wondering if Sherlock would be amenable to a shag later.

His boyfriend, sprawled on the sofa across the room, was in actual fact contemplating something similar and, after almost a whole hour had passed, he broke the silence with an important question pertaining to shagging re: John Watson.

"Are you a top or bottom?"

"For what?" John asked distractedly, frowning when he saw that Harry had misspelled most of her comment, which meant she was off the wagon. Again. He should probably call her tomorrow. Not tonight since she was already pissed and it wouldn't do any good. He sighed, fingers hovering over the keys. Maybe he should-

Wait, _what_?

John froze, eyes going wide, and his head snapped around to look at Sherlock who was gazing steadily at him, impatiently waiting for an answer.

"_What_?" John managed to choke out, feeling clarification would be invaluable in this instance. He often misunderstood what Sherlock meant by things and this was probably just another of those times. It was best not run away with what he _thought_ Sherlock meant, get it wrong, and make an utter arse of himself.

Sherlock scowled at John's inattentiveness. "Are you a top or bottom as it pertains to sexual intercourse? Well, homosexual intercourse." He amended. "I've been doing research about the different positions and preferences concerning anal intercourse and it seems many people have a liking for being either a top or bottom, penetrating versus _being_ penetrated, though some like to switch." Sherlock drew in a deep breath and turned his intense green eyes to John, once again demanding an answer. "I thought it best to ask you since you have previous experience and would already know which you prefer."

"Um…I don't…" John shook his head and glanced at his laptop as if the answer could be found there. It wasn't, of course, and Sherlock was still staring at him.

John cleared his throat and, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he closed his laptop and carefully set it to the side. "Where's this coming from?" He asked, a bit bemusedly, and he really was stumped. He'd thought they were rumbling along just fine, sexually, and everything in that area had been….well, bloody fantastic to put it mildly.

John had never before had a partner who was so _eager_. It all seemed so fascinating to Sherlock and John couldn't help but love every second of Sherlock's all-encompassing, never-ending, single-minded experimentation and most of the time, John would find himself lying back in a post-orgasmic haze realizing the clichéd "this is the best sex of my life" line was startlingly accurate.

Sherlock had devoted himself to learning what exact spots on John's body were the most ticklish, which part seemed oddly but nevertheless directly wired to his cock, which parts he liked best, which part John didn't like and why and how long it would take Sherlock to convince John it was just as amazing as the rest of him. What happened when he licked here, sucked there, stroked, bit, chewed, scratched, or attacked a certain part of John's body and what his reactions to the stimulus were- good, bad, or "_Oh, godgodgod_!"

Of course, John wasn't an inactive slug. He conducted his own explorations, and even if his weren't as methodical as Sherlock, even if he didn't carefully record his results in some room of his mind palace, and even if he didn't smugly grin every time he flipped Sherlock's switch (the way Sherlock had of doing, and really, looking so smug over making John come _that quickly_ should be illegal)…well, he still made every effort to reduce Sherlock to a beautiful, nonverbal state. And was frequently, highly successful.

So yes, he'd thought they were going along just fine and Sherlock was happy with everything they'd been doing. All evidence had pointed to that direction.

As Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, John felt two inches tall and realized he'd missed something vital.

"We are in a homosexual relationship which I assume means we will, at some point, engage in anal sex. I have been waiting on you to bring it up but you are exhibiting a strange reluctance to do so." Here, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John resisted the urge to fidget. "You are, of course, a gentlemen and not wanting to rush me into anything you think I'm not ready for, due to my lack of experience in these matters. You don't want me to feel pressured in case anal penetration is not something I desire and you would therefore feel you were foisting your own unwelcome desires onto me and I would be participating just to appease you." It had taken a whole afternoon of thought for Sherlock to reach that conclusion, but once he had discovered it, he knew it was correct. It fit who John was and how he treated Sherlock, and it was annoying and endearing and Sherlock resented it as much as he appreciated it.

"That's not it." John objected, hastily. "Well, not all of it."

Sherlock raised a skeptical brow and John rolled his eyes, huffing in annoyance.

"We don't _have_ to do that." He explained. "Lots of gay men don't- it's not something….it's not the be all and end all of gay sex, Sherlock…and I just thought…maybe you didn't want to." John ended lamely and was treated to another _look_ from Sherlock.

"If you had taken the time to discuss this with me you would have discovered it's an interest we both share and, instead of being repulsed, I am more…intrigued."

John watched the faintest of blushes creep up to stain Sherlock's cheeks and felt his heart kick up.

"Intrigued?"

The blush deepened tellingly and Sherlock licked his lips. "Yes."

_Well, then_. John swallowed heavily and shifted in his chair, watching as Sherlock's eyes flicked around his body, picking up on the beginning signs of arousal, his lips curving up into a self-satisfied smirk despite the blush that still flamed on his face.

"So. Top or bottom?"

John smirked back at him. Two could play at this. "You can't deduce it?"

This was, however, the wrong time to needle Sherlock Holmes.

One would have thought John had learned by this point.

"I had previously assumed you would prefer topping predominately, as it would make you feel more comfortable and mesh with your more dominant heterosexual tendencies, which you have embraced much more readily than your homosexual ones. I have since decided _against_ that view."

Sherlock stood and crossed the room, settling astride John's lap and sitting on his knees, the better position from which to discuss these things with him.

"You enjoy taking care and making certain I find pleasure in any sexual act we do and the trite phrase 'I get off when she (or well, _he_, in this instance) gets off' is shockingly accurate when describing you and your technique. However, I have noticed on several occasions your satisfaction when _I_ took care of _you_. You enjoy not having to be in the "top" role, of which you've done most of your life, both in your numerous heterosexual relationships and the few homosexual ones. I have hinted at wanting you to take things further to penetration but you never have, however when _I_ have done so to _you_, you've responded positively. Shows a definite lack of interest in some areas, that interest being diverted to others." Sherlock rattled off. "Am I wrong?"

John cocked his head to the side contemplatively, staring up at his deducing love. "Ye-e-es and…no. I like to top." He explained. "It's not that I _don't_ have any interest in it or none at all or however it was you phrased it. I was just…taking things slow with you? Not wanting to rush- and wipe that look off your face because I'm not going to be arsed to feel bad about doing that!" John said as Sherlock rolled his eyes, but at John's outburst Sherlock endeavored to look more contrite.

"So…you would want to switch?" He asked, leaning forward to kiss up John's neck and across his jawline, excitement thrumming through his veins at the idea.

"Switching's…fine." John whispered, leaning his head back in encouragement. "More than fine." His fingers dug into Sherlock's thighs as Sherlock attached himself to his neck, sucking a kiss beneath his ear before taking that piece of flesh between his teeth and gnawing on it.

"Oh, _yes_." John breathed, but then seemed to come back to himself and tried to push Sherlock away, who refused to go and tenaciously attached himself to John's ear, making John hiss and arch at the pain. "Sherlock! We can't just…just rush into it." He protested, feeling that he knew precisely where Sherlock was heading with his seductive ministrations. "You don't just sit down one day and decide you want a cock up your arse. You've got to get used to it- it's different- and-"

"I know that, John. You do agree to try?" Sherlock purred against John's neck, rocking slightly forward to nudge his erection against John's.

"Yes. Of course, yes."

"Then we'll need supplies."

* * *

_The Emporium _was brightly lit in neon red and its storefront sported a display of headless mannequins standing in a sea of red feather boas, all adorned in an impressive collection of leather fetish wear. Whips curled gracefully from some hands, while gleaming handcuffs encircled the wrists of others, their postures conveying submission and dominance, the barest hints of possible sexual positions. It all added up to a titillating suggestion of sex and bondage and made passersby stop and stare.

John and Sherlock stood together, gazing at the display, when they got out of the cab. John had told Sherlock they needn't go to a sex shop to get their "supplies." Everything they really needed was sold at Tesco, even at the all-night shop down at the corner, but Sherlock had insisted and John hadn't been about to deny him. Visiting a sex shop with his boyfriend had been on his "to-do" list for the longest time and he was trying to curb his excitement over the prospects of buying honest-to-god toys to use on Sherlock.

Tearing his eyes away from the leather clad models, Sherlock strode briskly forward and opened the door for John, plunging them into the large shop where Lady Gaga blared from overhead speakers and everything smelled faintly of plastic and latex.

It was Saturday night and the store was busy. Couples browsed the aisles and displays, standing closer than they normally would anywhere else, whispering excitedly and pointing, giggling and snogging by turns. A few people lurked by themselves, casting furtive glances around before snatching an item from the shelves and making their way to the front, heads down, faces flushed, hoping not to be seen.

"Have you ever been in a sex shop before?" John asked mildly as he followed Sherlock, who seemed to know where he was going, down an aisle stocked with different colored vibrators.

"Once, yes. It was for a case."

John snorted, shaking his head. "Right. Of course. Should've known. Did you buy anything?" He asked suddenly, leering exaggeratedly at Sherlock.

"That wasn't the point of the investigation-"Sherlock started huffily, but John cut him off with a strangled laugh.

"You _did_!"

Sherlock made no reply and turned away, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, shoulders stiff. John, grinning madly, let the subject drop.

For now.

He followed Sherlock down another aisle and across the back of the store, finally stopping in front of an inspiring display of multicolored butt plugs.

Let it be said that John has had his share of adventurous sex and has occasionally used a variety of sex toys to great effect. None of this was exactly _new_ to him.

So, he was surprised that, as he watched Sherlock's slim fingers trace the outline of one of the plugs, he mortifyingly felt himself hardening in his jeans.

He shifted, licking his lips, and glanced away from that riveting sight before he embarrassed himself.

"I think this would be best." Sherlock was saying, unaware of the conundrum that was taking place behind him. "It's small enough for first time use but thick enough to-" Sherlock broke off when he glanced at John for his input, eyes widening in surprise before something entirely smug crossed his face.

John swallowed thickly, glancing between Sherlock and where Sherlock's fingers were still stroking the plug. He licked his lips again.

"You're aroused." Sherlock murmured and John flushed a deeper shade of red because yes, ok? Fuck it, yes, he was getting turned on in the middle of an aisle at _The Emporium_ and that was all kinds of not good.

Sherlock, though, found it all kinds of very, _very_ good.

He strolled closer to John, lips curved into an almost cruel smirk before moving behind his boyfriend and leaning forward so he could whisper directly in his ear.

"I know you're aroused, John. I can see your pulse leaping at your throat, you're flushed…your…_impressive_ erection pressing against the front of your jeans….Does it excite you to imagine using these toys on me?" His voice dropped lower, husking against John's ear and John, wide-eyed, stared into the middle distance as Sherlock spun out his erotic musings.

"Do you imagine licking your way down my body, teasing…caressing? I would already be hard, _ready_…_excited_ at the idea of what you're about to do. And you know what that would be." Sherlock paused, leaving an expectant hush before: "First your finger."

John shuddered.

"Just the one, slick with lube, sliding….slowly….inside me…Warm, and wet, and very, _very_ tight."

John's moan was strangled in his throat and he felt Sherlock smile against his ear. They had to shift closer together as someone moved past them in the aisle and Sherlock took the opportunity to grasp John's hips and pull him back against him, pressing his own erection against John's arse. His coat fell around them, offering a little privacy, and to passersby they simply looked like an overly affectionate couple cuddling in front of the butt plugs.

People, as Sherlock always said, see but do not observe.

"Do you imagine moving that finger inside me?" Sherlock continued. "Slowly at first, not wanting to rush…watching the way I tense…and then relax at your movements? How long do you think I would last before I'm demanding more? Half a minute? You always say I'm so pushy…but you wouldn't tease me, would you, John?" Sherlock rumbled, dipping his head further down, voice the barest of sounds, and John's flesh broke out in goose bumps. "You would give me more. Slide another finger alongside that one, watch my rectum stretch to accommodate it. Add more lube, the feeling tighter, something I am wholly unused to…and I would _moan_."

John's knees went weak at the demonstrative sound Sherlock made and he leaned against Sherlock's chest, hands fisted at his sides, his arousal fighting with his embarrassment over which could make him flush the hardest.

"Then you would take the plug." Sherlock instructed, and John's eyes fell to the one he had been caressing earlier. "And I would watch you as you slicked it in lube, biting my lip, breathing already ragged, my penis hard and flushed from the anticipation. Would you touch it, John?" Sherlock's tongue snaked out to tease along the rim of John's ear and John whimpered in helpless arousal, shuddering again. "Would you grip my penis, feel it jerk in your hand…so hard…as you slowly….agonizingly…slid…the plug…inside? Watch my rectum stretch even _wider_ to accommodate it, wonder how it would finally feel when it's not a piece of plastic…but _your_ penis sliding inside? How _tight_ I would grip _you_, how _good_ it would _feel_-"

John jerked away from his boyfriend, breathing raggedly, fully aware how hard and throbbing he was, feeling shaky and hot with arousal. He turned to find Sherlock smirking at him, pulling his coat around his frame to hide his own erection, something John was unable to do.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked innocently, plucking the preferred plug from the hook and handing it to John with a flourish and a knowing wink. John took it in barely steady hands and tried to will his erection away before someone saw.

"You got it wrong." John piped up as they made their way to the lube display, dodging around a couple who were plastered to each other, heatedly snogging.

"What?"

"You got it wrong. What you said earlier."

Sherlock frowned. "What was that?"

"I wouldn't start with my fingers." John explained conversationally. "I would start by licking you open with my tongue."

He grinned cheekily at Sherlock and walked on, leaving his boyfriend standing stock still in the middle of the aisle, cheeks flaming in color.

* * *

**In my defense, the challenge never specified what sort of shopping they had to be doing. :)**

**I now have a Tumblr! The link is on my profile page, so feel free to follow me. If you do, and your username is different there than it is here, please drop me a line and let me know- just so I know who you are. :) Thanks!**


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